After the Storm
by Sherlocksangel
Summary: John is forced to continue living after Sherlock's death, unaware of what is really going on with the remains of Moriarty's web.
1. Prologue

A/N: So I'm new to the whole righting fan fiction stuff and this website and all. So any feedback or tips would be great! I do not own anything but my own plotline; the credit goes to the wonderful writers Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and of course Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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**Prologue**

The sky had been gray and overcast all day. As the hours wore on, it slowly became obvious that rain was imminent.

All along Baker Street, people rushed quietly through their lives. Businessmen returned to their homes with suitcases in hand and wrinkles of stress creasing their foreheads. A man sat on a bench with his hat down low, alternating between watching the people walk by and reading the newspaper he held in front of him. A woman with dirt on her face carried a large bag as she slowly made her way down the sidewalk.

John Watson hobbled quicikly, his coat collar pulled up and hands tucked into his pockets. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the figure that was walking towards him.

John jumped slightly when he felt a hand lightly grasp ast his elbow. He whirled on the man and gaspedslightly when he realized who it was.

The man cleared his throat. "Hello, John," he said, after a moment of silence.

Instantly, everything flashed through John's mind: the memories, the emotions, and all that had happened two months ago that day. The day he had lost his best friend.

Pain ripped through John's chest making it hard to breathe. He groped for something to distract himself before he completely drowned in his sorrow.

"Detective Lestrade. Hello."

"It's been a while," Lestrade said, clearing his throat again. John nodded and leaned further onto his can, tucking himself carefully into the collar of his coat to block out the frosty wind.

When John didn't reply, Lestrade tried again. "I wanted to know how you were doing," he murmured.

"Fine," John replied, concentrating his gaze on a leaf that suddenly became very interesting.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" Lestrade persisted.

"She is going well also," John lied.

He remembered the week before when he had told her that he was moving out. At first he thought she had taken it well, but later that night he had found Mrs. Hudson crying to herself on the duvet.

"Must you leave?" she had asked him.

"I think you understand why I have to," John replied, almost as a plea.

"No, I really do not."

John had stared at her for a long time; she stared back, unblinking though her tears.

Frustrated, John had wiped all of the papers, books and other odd items off of the table nearest to him, the papers floating through the air before softly, quietly landing on the floor. He then slammed his fist onto the table and braced both hands against it to support himself, setting his cane along the edge.

"Because I can't stand the shadows anymore, Mrs. Hudson," he had said, refusing to look at her, to see her reaction to his fit of distress. "I can't stand to stay here anymore. The memories, they haunt me. Every time I look at that damn skull I see him there, pacing back and forth muttering to himself. Every time I go to open the bloody refrigerator I remember the body parts he would keep in there. Hell, even those damn bullet holes in teh bloody walls have me remembering! I can't do it. I just...I can't. Not anymore."

John remembered how he had stared at the table as Mrs. Hudson stood and walked towards him. He had heard her stop and hesitate near him and he imagined her reaching out her hand to comfort him before pulling it away and walking out of the room.

They had barely talked since then.

"John?" Lestrade said, breaking though John's reminiscing. "I...I actually came here for a reason. I need to talk to you about something."

John closed his eyes before opening them slowly. Meeting Lestrade's gaze, John plastered a pleasant smile on his face.

"Yes?"

"It's about the phone call, John," Lestrade said, his words cutting into John's facade.

"What phone call?" he asked, though he knew exactly what Lestrade was talking about.

Lestrade hesitated before answering.

"His last call, John. Sherlock's last call."

John closed his eyes again and the images swam against his eyelids. Sherlock standing on the edge of the building, his coat billowing in the wind. The sight of his flailing body as he jumped. His best friend falling.

"What about the call?" John said brusquely, opening his eyes, though blurry images still haunted him at the back of his mind.

"There's still an investigation going on, John...we need as much information as we can get. What did Sherlock say to you before he jumped?"

"What is there to investigate?" John replied coldly. "It was suicide. End of story."

"We did find Moriarty's body lying dead on the roof also, Dr. Watson," Lestrade replied stiffly.

"Another suicide, if I remember correctly," John said bitterly. "Maybe they had a suicide pact, had formed their own little cult where they would both kill themselves together," he mocked.

John knew he was being petty and deep down he didn't believe what he was saying, but he didn't care. Suddenly it was as if there was a pot of water inside of him, boiling, with nothing to stop it from spilling over.

Shocked, Lestrade tried to calm him down. "John, you were Sherlock's friend-"

"Sherlock was nothing but a fake. A fake!" he spit out. "He was a hateful and narcissistic human being. He was selfish, lacked emotion, and cared about nobody but himself.

"He called me, and he told me to watch as he fell...he made me watch it, Detective Lestrade, do you understand? And before he jumped he told me to tell everybody that he was a fake, a liar. That he wasn't actually a genius and that Moriarty was just created by him for _fun_. Can you believe that, Detective?" John asked, his tone turning condescending.

Lestrade tried to interrupt him, but John wasn't finished.

"Don't ever, ever mistake interest for friendship, Lestrade. For I was a toy to Sherlock Holmes. He played with me like a cat plays with a mouse. I meant less to him than a penny means to a millionaire. I don't believe you need another analogy to understand, Detective.

"So please, spare me the bloody bullshit about how Sherlock Holmes actually cared for me, because I know now that he never did. If he had, he would not have jumped off of that damned building. He would be with me here, now, instead of in the bloody ground."

Suddenly drained of energy, John hunched over his cane.

"Now, if that is all, Lestrade, I will be on my way," John said, refusing to meet his eyes. "I bid you a good day."

And with that John tuned on his heels and limped the rest of th way down the street to 221B, leaving Lestrade to stare at him sadly before turning his back and walking in the opposite direction.

Nearby, the man on the bench folded his newspaper neatly in half before standing. He looked in the direction the man with the cane had gone, and he watched as he let himself into an apartment down the street.

Turning in the other direction, the man walked away, flipping his coat collar up and shoving his hands into his pockets.

Just then, the sky opened up and rain gushed through in torrents, cold to the skin. As it fell, the rainwater mixed with a single tear that slid down the man's ckeek as he walked away.

Silently, he disappeared into the crowd of people like a shadow.

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**A/N: **This story started out with the idea of being just by itself, but I've been sort of developing a plotline in my mind. If I continue, I have absolutely no idea where the story is going. Feedback would be great! Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 1 A New Life

**A/N: **Thank you to MadameGiry25 for her helpful interview! I hope the first chapter can give a little better insight. I still own nothing

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**Chapter 1 ~ A New Life**

"Is that the last box?" a voice from the other room called.

"Er, I believe so," John replied.

Sarah walked into the hall where John was leaning up against the door frame. His leg was bothering him from all of the lifting and moving, but he refused to let on about it.

John watched as Sarah nervously gnawed on her lip. He knew what was coming; he had heard it from many people already.

"Are you...sure this is what you want, John?"

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew that Sarah was just trying to help. "Yes I'm sure," he said firmly.

"But-"

"No, Sarah. This will help me. Really."

Slowly Sarah nodded, accepting that John had made up his mind.

"Alright. I guess I should be off, then. I have a long day at the clinic tomorrow."

"Right. Good. Well, I'll see you around," John said. Sarah walked by and gave him an awkward half-hug before exiting.

Shutting and locking the door, John turned around and studied his new flat.

It was fairly run-down. John didn't have a jab and he was living off of his army pension. The walls were a faded shade of yellow, dirt and other substances staining it here and there. In a couple of spots there were even some dents. The wooden floor was dirty and scuffed, the history of the flat all in the marks. He imagined Sherlock would have loved it, deducing eveything that had happened there, occupying himself so that he wouldn't get bored.

John walked down the narrow hall and entered the door to the right. It led to a small living room connected to the kitchen. A small island stood in the middle of the kitchen in between the sink and a couple of countertops. The refrigerator was half the size of a normal one and sat next to one of the counters unplugged. The living room contained a single sofa, but other than that there was no other furniture in the room.

Sighing, John headed to the wall where all of his possessions were campacted into boxes. He really wasn't in the mood for unpacking, so he dug around until he found a pair of striped pajamas and the necessary objects needed to take a shower. Heading out of the room, he entered the dirty bathroom at the end of the hallway and took a long shower that eventually ran out of warm water.

When he was dressed, he took his used towel and wiped away the leftover steam from the mirror.

Often he found himself staring into the mirror at his reflection, trying to figure out what other people saw.

_Wrinkles that weren't there before, _he would note. "_Obviously a result of something traumatic, most likely emotionally stressful,"_ the Sherlock in his mind would whisper.

_Purple bags under the eyes. _

_"Kept up late at night, haunted by memories both awake and asleep,"_ mind-Sherlock would inform him.

_Slightly stooped._

_"Limp in the right leg, psychosomatic but unavoidable."_

But there was always more. There were things that couldn't easily be put into words, like the deadness his eyes seemed to display, or the shadows that constantly passed over his face. Always, John Watson would give up, because no matter how hard he searched, he always came up empty.

He didn't know who he was anymore.

Picking up the cane leaning against the wall, he limped out of the bathroom and entered his new bedroom. A bed and a small dresser were all that was in there. They had been delivered the day before and he'd had to sleep on one of Mrs. Hudson's couches.

Their farewell hadn't been anything exciting. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on making him a small breakfast.

"I may not be your housekeeper," she had said, "but this I will do. After all, it may be the last chance I get."

John had tried to ignor the sadness he heard in her voice, but he still felt it in their goodbye hug. After reassuring her that he would stay in touch, John had gotten into a taxi that had taken him to his new flat where the rest of his belongings were being delivered. Sarah had shown up halfway through the day to help unpack.

With a grunt, John settled himself on the edge of his bed, placing his cane alongside him.

He hadn't heard from or seen Lestrade since the month before outside of his apartment. Since then, he had mulled over what he had said to him, wondering how much was actually true.

Did Sherlock actually care for him?

Of course he did, John reasoned with himself. If he hadn't cared he could have easily left him behind to solve cases himself. He culd have ran when John had the bomp strapped to his chest at the swimming pool; he could have left John to be killed by the Chinese smugglers. But he hadn't. So that should count for something, right?

And yet Sherlock had jumped off of the building right in front of him.

Again John could feel the anger and bitterness boiling up inside of him. Why had he done it? Because he thought his reputation was ruined? John knew there was no way that Sherlock Holmes was a fake.

Then why had John told Lestrade that he was?

_Because now the idea is in your head and no matter how hard you try you can't get rid of it,_ his mind told him.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, John realized that the sun had completely set and he was sitting in his room in the dark.

Deciding that he might as well attempt to sleep, John left the room to go dig through the boxes for a couple of blankets. The apartment was pretty cold and John found himself in goosebumps.

John dug through a couple of boxes but only found clothes and other miscellaneous objects. Frustrated, he tossed the shoe he was holding at another box.

John cursed under his breath when the box fell, dumping all of its contents onto the floor.

Then he froze.

That blue...he would recognize that color and style anywhere...

But it wasn't possible.

"But...you were wearing that when you...when you jumped," John murmured to himself. Unsteadily, he knelt to the ground and slowly reached out to grab it.

It was exactly like the scarf Sherlock would wear, down to the same shade and stitching pattern.

"How did this end up here?" John wondered aloud. He certainly didn't remember packing it. In fact, it was impossible for it to have even been at the old flat considering Sherlock had been wearing it when he jumped.

"Bloody hell, I'm going mad," John muttered under his breath.

Throwing the scarf to the ground, John stood up, unable to look at it for any longer. After a couple more boxes, he eventually found a comforter and a pillow that would be good enough for the night.

It took a couple hours for him to finally fall asleep, and when he did his unconscious mind was plagued with nightmares.

All the while the blue scarf lay on the ground, abandoned.

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**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for reading! The next chapter will probably be up next Wednesday.


	3. Chapter 2 Always a Doctor

**A/N: **This chapter really frustrated me. I don't feel like it was very well written and that everything happened too fast. The next one will be better.

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Chapter 2: Always a Doctor

The sound of screaming filled the room.

John woke with a start. His first thought was that he had woken himself by crying out again; it had happened to him a couple times now. But as his senses started to focus, he realized that it wasn't him.

The yelling continued.

Quickly, John grabbed his cane and pulled himself out of bed. It sounded like all of the noises were coming from the apartment next door.

Choosing to ignore the fact the he was still in his pajamas, John rushed out of his room and down the hallway, out the door, and toward the apartment to the right. He pounded on the door and waited for a couple seconds, pressing his ear against it. Loud noises were still coming out, but they were more muffled.

The door was jerked open and John stumbled in, losing his balance. Suddenly, a face was right in front of his.

"Please, help me," sobbed a young woman standing in the doorway. Before John had a chance to react, the woman disappeared into her apartment. John followed her inside and walked down the hallway before entering the room he had seen her disappear into.

It was a bedroom much the same as his own new one. If he were to guess, he would say it was the exact same layout and dimensions. The only difference was the decorations. Photographs were hung on the walls and some sat atop various pieces of furniture. A quilt that looked homemade laid across the back of a rocking chair sitting in the corner. A striped white and purple duvet lay messily across the bed; on the floor next to the bed was a body.

John had seen many dead bodies. Some were from his time in Afghanistan, but a lot of them had been from the time he had spent with Sherlock. The familiarity caused a pain in his chest.

The woman kneeled on the floor next to body. "Do something!" she cried at John who had just been standing there.

John released a breath he didn't know he was holding and limped across the room in a few quick strides.

The woman backed out of his way as he knelt awkwardly on the ground next to the motionless figure, setting his cane down.

"Call the paramedics!" he shouted at the woman as he felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

He already knew that it was too late to do anything but John started CPR anyways as the woman disappeared from the room. A minute later she returned. Watching the scene going on inside the bedroom, she leaned against the door frame and slid to the floor, another sob rocking her body.

John kept working on the body though he knew it was useless. The familiar motions brought him back to his military days. How many broken bodies had he worked on all the while knowing that there was nothing he could do? How many fallen comrades had he not been able to save? Yet he always tried. Maybe it was to ease his guilty conscious so that he could say that he at least tried to help. Or maybe he just didn't want to feel useless.

A couple minutes went by as John worked on the lifeless body. The woman had stopped crying and instead she stared at the wall blankly.

_She's going into shock,_ John noted, but kept going.

Minutes or hours later (he wasn't sure) sirens filled the street and John allowed himself to stop as a woman and two men in uniforms ran into the room. A fourth walked in, surveyed the scene, then headed towards the woman, kneeling down and talking softly to her.

A gurney was rolled in by a fifth, and the two original paramedics lifted the body onto it.

"What happened?" the first woman who walked in asked John softly.

"Asphyxiation. Possibly a seizure. I heard yelling when I woke up so I came over. I was too late though," John answered emotionlessly.

"So you're a doctor?" the woman asked, raising her eyebrows. John simply nodded, and started to pull himself up.

"Are you injured in any way, sir?" she asked, noticing John's bad leg.

"No, but the woman's going into shock. Focus on her." The paramedic nodded and allowed John to walk past her.

The crying woman was being led out of the room and John followed. Soon he was outside, the fresh air a relief from the stuffiness inside. A police car and two ambulances sat alongside the road, their lights flashing. The paramedic behind him walked off towards the one the man's body had been taken to.

John longed to return to his flat, but before he could an officer walked up to him to ask him a few questions. It was simple stuff like what had happened, the approximate time, and if he knew the people. The questioning was brief and lasted no more than five minutes, to John's relief.

After the officer thanked him, John turned to go inside his own flat but was stopped by another figure. It was his neighbor, the woman who had asked him for help. An orange blanket was wrapped around her shoulders and John noticed how she clutched at the edges as if they were a lifeline.

"Thank you," she murmured, looking at the ground.

"Oh, um, of course," John muttered, instantly feeling uncomfortable. He felt the gratitude was pointless for he hadn't actually done anything to help.

John cleared his throat when she didn't say anything. "I'm, uh, terribly sorry about your loss. I wish there was more I could have done," he mumbled.

The woman placed her hand lightly on his shoulder and a sad smile crossed her face. "You tried. That's more than I can say for myself," she said.

Again there was an uncomfortable silence. "Well, uh, I guess I should be going," John said, not wanting to be rude, but not knowing what else there was to say.

He turned to leave, but before he could the woman said, "Wait! I didn't even catch your name."

"Oh. John. It's John Watson," he informed her.

Once more she smiled her sad smile. "Again, thank you, John Watson."

John nodded once before limping away and entering his apartment.

He closed the door behind him. At first he didn't know what to do. He couldn't possibly eat after what had happened, but then again he hadn't had much of an appetite of late. He decided his first order of business was to change into regular clothes, so he limped into the living room and dug through the boxes until he found presentable clothing.

Once in the bathroom, he turned the faucets on full blast and washed his hands before splashing his face.

He had just touched a dead body.

And yet he didn't feel terrible affected by it. It almost seemed normal and that bothered him.

_You're too used to it_, he told himself before proceeding to pull his clothes on.

John walked back into the living room when he was dressed and looked around. /Tea sounds good/, he thought and grabbed a box with kitchen supplies in it. Once the water was on, he walked back and sat down on the chair.

Reflecting on the events of his first morning in his new flat, John chuckled to himself.

_Welcome to your new home_, he thought.

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**A/N: **Reviews are a lot of help. Love to all :)


	4. Chapter 3

**AN: **Thanks to my emotionless robot of a friend who helped settle me when I had my mini freak-out about being a terrible writer. She's given me some interesting insight and good ideas for future parts of my story. Once again, sorry about the choppiness. I really need to work on my sentence fluency stuff. Enjoy!

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Chapter 3: Fame

It had been two days since the incident in the flat next door. John hadn't given it much thought. It seemed to just blend in with all of the other excitement he had grown accustomed to, though he did feel a twinge of sadness for the woman whenever it did happen to cross his mind. He hadn't seen or heard from her until he walked out of his flat that day.

Alongside the road, a small moving vehicle was parked, and men were carrying boxes and furniture out of the flat next door. Standing off to the side wrapped in a shawl was the woman. Her eyes looked sunken with shadows underneath and her hair was thrown back in a messy bun. The clothes she wore were baggy and made her frame look even smaller. Noticing John exiting his apartment, the woman lifted her hand in a small wave which John returned before turning away to walk towards the main road and hail a cab.

John had a feeling he knew exactly why the woman was leaving; it was for the same reason he had left his own flat.

It was dark by the time the cabbie dropped John off at his apartment. The moving truck was gone along with the men, and John wondered if the girl had left too.

"John Watson," came a voice from behind him as he walked toward his door.

John turned around to look at the slight figure standing behind him, relaxing when he realized it was just his neighbor.

"Yeah?" he replied, looking at her. _Not gone yet, then, _he thought.

"As in _the_ John Watson? The one who solves crimes with Sherlock Holmes?"

John felt a pang in his stomach at the mention of his name, and he caught his breath, waiting for it to leave.

"Solved," John corrected, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Solved cases. Yeah, that would be me."

"Oh, right, of course," the woman muttered looking down at the sidewalk. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a minute.

"Is it true then?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"Is he...was it true what the papers said? Was he a fake?"

John stiffened at the question. Of course he should have been expecting it. He had been asked the same question so many other times, and each time he was at a loss for an answer.

The woman seemed to notice his hesitation. "Never mind you don't have to-"

"I don't know," John interrupted. "I don't know what I believe," he told her, and it was the most truthful thing he had said about it.

Not wanting to force awkward conversation anymore, John said, "I hope wherever you're going you'll be happy. The loss won't stop hurting, but it will get easier to live with. Have a good night." And he left the wide-eyed woman standing by herself on the sidewalk as he disappeared into his flat.

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John found himself wandering through the streets again. Often he would get himself out of bed after his nightmares and disappear into the darkened city trying to walk off the residual feelings he was left with afterwards. This time, though, it was simply because he was unable to fall asleep and had finally grown tired of staring at the same crack in the ceiling. Grabbing his cane, he had changed back into his street clothes and thrown a coat on before exiting through the door.

Nighttime always seemed to calm him. The streets were generally barren and the usual sounds of the city were quieted. John rarely saw another person out and about.

He found himself walking through the center of the town. It was a sort of plaza inside of a park and John liked the seclusion he felt when walking through the empty location that was normally bustling with life. At the center of it all was a beautiful fountain.

Nearby was a bench and John settled himself on it allowing his sore leg a chance to rest. The sky was so clear that, despite the street lamps and other city lights, John was able to pick out a few of the brighter stars. He leaned his head back to appreciate them when he remembered a conversation he had with Sherlock about the solar system. John still couldn't believe that such a brilliant man was ignorant of the world and it's surroundings.

A small smile curled John's lips at the memory, though it was quickly replaced with a grimace. It happened often. John would start to remember things, both good and bad. The thoughts, though, were always soon overshadowed by the full truth: that he would never get the chance to make more memories. There was no escaping it no matter how hard he tried to outrun it.

With a sigh, John opened his eyes deciding it was time to return to his empty flat. Standing up, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and whipped his head toward it, but there was nothing there.

John shook his head slightly, chiding himself for being so paranoid. Of course, that's what happened to someone who returned from service in Afghanistan and then spent more than a month with Sherlock. You had to keep a constant vigilant because you never knew where the next person who wanted to kill you would come from.

Shaking the memories from his mind, John walked away from the fountain, through the park and empty streets, and towards his flat. Once in bed, he fell into a troubled sleep.

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The next morning John woke with a pounding headache. With a groan, he hoisted himself out of bed.

"I need a cuppa," he muttered to himself, limping into the kitchen to make some tea. While waiting for the water to boil, he heard the thud of the daily newspaper hit the front door.

John had avoided most types of media since the fall. He wanted nothing to do with the gossip circulating about the Reichenbach hero who had turned out to be a fake. The story was every reporters' dream and it was difficult to pick up a newspaper without some new story circulating; it was also difficult for John to leave his apartment without getting hoarded by reporters. For the first couple weeks he had just locked himself in the flat, a torture nearly as bad as actually watching his friend fall off of the roof of St. Bart's.

Since he had moved to the new flat, though, he had allowed himself to skim the paper, slowly becoming reacquainted with the real world. It also gave him something to do instead of unpacking or sitting around, staring at the wall.

After retrieving the paper, John set it on the table next to the chair and made himself a cup of tea. His head was still throbbing, so he took some pain relievers with his tea, burning his tongue.

John settled himself on the chair and grabbed the newspaper. Taking a sip from the cup, he looked around the room.

Over the last few days he had been able to unpack most of the boxes, though a few still sat against the wall. John knew that buried somewhere in one of the boxes was his laptop. He hadn't touched it the last three months, nor had he had any urge to. The blog was now pointless. Nothing ever happened to him.

John's eyes moved to the floor. The scarf laid exactly where it had landed when it fell out of the box, the familiar blue adding a splash of color to the otherwise full room. John hadn't been able to bring himself to move it, still unsure of how it could have possibly ended up in his flat. Instead, he would often just stare at it as if willing it to disappear, to prove that he was going insane.

Shaking his head, John turned away and directed his attention to the newspaper. A man had apparently set his house on fire to kill his wife and daughter after finding out that his wife was having an affair and stealing money out of their banking account. In another story, a young girl was protected by her dog when a burglar attempted a break-in. John was about finished when another headline caught his attention.

"The Return of a Doctor."

John found the article and started reading. Only a sentence in, his hearted started thudding loudly.

"We all remember the suicide of the Reichenbach Hero, Sherlock Holmes, and the scandal behind the events. What most people have forgotten, though, is the faithful companion that tended to blend into the background of Holmes' fame.

Doctor John Watson seemed to fall off of the face of the earth after the suicide of his companion. What happened to the good doctor, you might ask? Well, you may find it reassuring to find out that he continues to carry on with his civic duties- behind the scenes.

"All I knew was that someone was moving into the empty flat next to us," Sylvia Brown, a local Londoner, states. "I had no idea it was John Watson until after my boyfriend had passed."

Early Sunday morning, Brown's boyfriend, Michael Todd, collapsed next to their bed, suffering a seizure. "I walked in and I saw him lying there and didn't know what to do. I panicked, and I guess John heard from next door and rushed over," Brown stated.

Doctor Watson's attempts to save Todd were futile. When the doctor arrived, he was already dead. He had suffered from epilepsy since he was a child, so foul play is not suspected.

Though the doctor seems to have faded into the background once more, he has not completely disappeared, a thought that is both reassuring and hopeful to many a Londoner."

Underneath the article was a picture of John sitting on a bench next to the fountain in the park.

_That was taken last night_, John thought, recognizing the clothes he was wearing in the picture to be the ones lying on his bedroom floor at the moment. Somehow a newspaper photographer had managed to get a picture of him without his knowing, and John realized that maybe he had good reason to be paranoid.

Throwing the paper onto the side table, John stood up and started pacing around. He didn't like the attention; he had manage to stay out of the newspapers for the last three months, all to no avail it would seem.

_Maybe no one will notice_, John thought. _After all, _it_ is a small article in the back of the newspaper_, he conceded.

Deciding that he needed some more fresh air, John grabbed his coat and cane and walked out the door; he instantly regretted the decision.

Leaning up against the gate in front of the apartment building was a greasy-looking man. His black hair was slicked back and a well-groomed mustache sat under his mousy nose.

"John Watson?" the man asked excitedly, jumping up from his position against the fence.

"Yeah..." John said hesitantly, noting that the man had an annoyingly nasally voice.

"My name is Stuart Hopkins from the "London Times" and I was wondering if you'd be willing to answer a few questions-"

"No," John interrupted and walked past the man.

"But-"

"No," John said more forcefully. "I am not interested in answering any questions about anything."

The man, Stuart, followed John as he walked down the sidewalk.

"Should we expect a full return from you, Doctor?"

"What- no! I'm not returning to anything except a cold cup of tea when I get back to my flat," John said sardonically.

"So you won't be solving anymore cases without your companion, Doctor?"

"No-"

"While we're talking about Sherlock Holmes, my condolences of course, could you perhaps give me a little insight-"

"I said no," John stated calmly, coming to a complete standstill on the sidewalk. "I'm not interested, I never was, and I never will be. Now. Sod. Off."

Stuart glowered, but John ignored him and continued walking down the sidewalk.

As the anger faded away and the distance between him and the reporter increased, John cursed to himself, knowing he shouldn't have said what he did. The press had a way with twisting people's words to come back and bite them in the arse; antagonizing a reporter was the quickest way to get rumors floating around, and that was exactly what he had been trying to avoid.

Wandering aimlessly down the sidewalk, John began to dread what he might have possibly just set in motion. The last thing he needed was a group of reporters following his every move in the hopes of getting a good story.

John had a feeling things were about to get a lot more complicated.

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**AN: **Chapter 4 or 5 (whatever you want to call it) will be posted on Thursday (November 15th). The more I get into the story the more I wish I had made the prologue a stand-alone. Oh well.

Comments are helpful. Love to you all!


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: In the Shadows

He had mostly forgotten what it was like to feel. He had never been very good at it, and he never showed his emotions, but they were always there nevertheless. What little feelings he had before had magnified, though, in the last year and a half, mainly because of one person.

But now? Now they were all but gone.

The thought crossed his mind as he looked down at the whimpering form lying at his feet. He felt no remorse for the things he had done, nor did he regret what he was about to do. It was the grim reality he had accepted months ago.

"Please. Please!" begged the man, looking up at him, fear illuminating his eyes. "I gave you what you wanted, now let me go!"

"Now why would I do that?" he asked with feigned curiosity, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with the man.

"I g-gave you want you w-wanted," the man repeated, ignoring the blood that dripped into his eye from one of his various wounds.

He studied the man emotionlessly. _Scars on his face, and other parts of his body, obviously acclimatized to violence. More callouses on his right hand than left shows he's used to holding a gun. Married, a ring hanging on a chain around his neck tucked into his shirt. The fact that it had been removed from his hand but kept says that he doesn't want it dirtied but cares enough to keep it, so he has someone waiting for him to return-_

_Stop it_, he orders himself. Knowing personal things about the man did not change what had to be done. They did not change the fact that the man begging for his life in front of him was a murderer.

"Not a good enough reason," he answered coldly, standing up. He pulled a gun out of his waistband and turned back to the man, aiming the weapon at the criminal's chest.

"You think you're better than us," the man said suddenly, seeming to gain some bravery.

He didn't hesitate to answer. "I don't think. I know."

"Oh? And what about this makes you any different?" the man asked.

"My motivations are true."

At this, the man started laughing, an action that initiated a rattling, hollow cough. Once it passed, the man spat out a mouthful of blood, likely from the broken ribs that had punctured his lungs.

"That's what we all said at one point or another," the man croaked, regaining his composure.

"Too bad you strayed from your path," he answered, and before the man had a chance to reply, he shot him in the chest once, right through where his heart had been beating only moments before.

He had heard the same things from a few of his previous victims. At first it had bothered him, but now he didn't give it a second thought. He knew that what he was doing was grisly and gruesome, but it had to be done. In fact, he was making the world a better place by doing so.

Putting the gun away, he moved forward to begin the arduous task of cleaning up. The motions were familiar to him: retrieve the bullet, dispose of the body, hide the blood, and get rid of any other signs that would show he had been there. The abandoned textile factory that sat next to a small lake made the actions simple enough.

Twenty minutes later he was dragging the corpse to the rickety dock that looked to be at least fifty years old. The man had been marginally small so he was easier to move than others had been. The only thing that hindered their progress was the cement block he had tied to the man's ankle in order to ensure that he did not float.

Once they arrived, he slipped the man's body in as silently as he could before following it with the block. He did not think of the life the man had lived as he turned away, leaving the body to disappear in the murky depths. He did not think of the childhood the man would have had and the memories he would have formed with friends. He did not think of the family that would never get the chance to see their beloved husband, son, or father again.

Instead he was already planning out his next move, tucking away the names he had tortured out of the man, submitting them to memory. He had gotten general locations, also, and was figuring out which route would be the quickest to take. Of course some of the information may have been outdated, but he could always ask his next target.

As he left the scene, a thought crossed his mind. He wanted to ignore it, but it nagged him, refusing to go away without being acknowledged.

He was the closest to 'home' that he had been in the last month. Just one short visit couldn't hurt, could it?

_Don't get distracted_, screamed a voice from the back of his mind, but it was drowned out by the incessant thought of being able to see _him_ again, whether or not it was only a fleeting glimpse.

_You remember what you heard last time, though_, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. Of course he remembered. How could he forget? The words "fake", "narcissistic", and "hateful" rattled around his brain. _You know how he feels._

_No, he was still in the mourning process. It was too soon and he was overcome with anger, that is all,_ another voice argued.

The thought didn't help, though. He once again found himself questioning what he would be returning to (he refused to consider he wouldn't be returning at all). The question had niggled in the back of his mind after the things he had overheard during his last trip home. Would he be accepted into open arms, or turned out by the very man he had gone through so much trouble to save? Had he done so much damage that it was irreparable? Unforgivable?

He brushed the pointless thoughts away. One day he would return, and only then would he know. But it was not that day yet, nor would it be the next. So why were his mind and heart arguing with each other about briefly returning? His mind knew it was unproductive to stop and that it was a waste of precious time, but his heart wanted this, wanted that one glimpse as something to keep it motivated, a reminder of why he was doing all of this.

He chuckled to himself at the irony. Had he not just been thinking about how any pretense to emotion that he had was faded? And now he sat there, contemplating an action that had no logic behind it. Logic was always the one thing that he listened to. Logic was good, it was true. It was the one thing that never lied or confused him.

And yet he knew that his heart had won the battle before it even started.

He would take no longer than a day, he assured himself. A day wouldn't hurt. He just had to ascertain he was doing okay, that he was safe and healthy.

_Just one day_, he thought, as he disappeared into the shadows.

_Just one day. I'm coming, John._

* * *

**AN: **This chapter was a little bit shorter. Enjoy! Next chapter should be up Tuesday. Lots of love to all


	6. Chapter 5

**AN: **I'm actually surprised how okay this chapter turned out considering I was literally half asleep while writing most of it. As always, feel free to comment and I don't own anything except for my own plot.

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Chapter 5: A Warning

_Gunshots rebounded everywhere, the sound of firefight both immediate and in the distance. He ran for cover behind the nearby sandbags where another soldier had ducked._

_"What am I doing here?" he yelled to the soldier._

_"Hostiles due west! Gear up!" the soldier replied tossing some sort of automatic weapon to him._

_He barely had time to catch it before the other soldier was around the corner firing rounds toward the far end of the ravaged street. There was a crumbling building where occasional flashes were seen immediately followed by the crack of a shot._

_He was about to join the soldier in firing when there was the thud of a bullet meeting it's target. He watched in slow motion as his comrade fell to the ground, blood already soaking into the sandy street._

_The soldier made gurgling, strangled noises as he was pulled out of the line of fire and back behind the sand bags. _

_"It's okay, you're okay," he reassured the soldier. "I'm a doctor. I'll fix you right up, eh? How does that sound?"_

_He tried to calm the man as he fell into the familiar, urgent motions._

_The man grabbed his arms in a feeble attempt to stop him._

_"It's no use, mate," the soldier said weakly, coughing up blood. "It clean went through me."_

_"Don't worry, I-"_

_"No," he wheezed as forcefully as he could. "I have to die. You don't understand. I have to-" His breath came in rattling gasps and John watched as the life drained out of his eyes. He reached forward to close the soldiers eyelids, but as he did so the entire scene transformed._

_The gunshots were replaced by deafening silence, the sand changing to polished linoleum floor, and instead of the soldier he was reaching towards it was a different corpse covered by a white sheet. Dark, unruly curls spilled over the forehead and onto the table. The grey eyes stared blanky at the ceiling._

_"Sherlock," John choked out before he lurched towards the body and grasped the cold stony shoulders. "No no no no," he groaned. "Sherlock. Sherlock, please!" he cried, roughly shaking the body. "You have to wake up now. I need you! Please, Sherlock," he continued, his pleas turning into whispers._

_"Doctor, you need to calm down," came a voice from behind him. It was followed by a sharp pain in his shoulder that quickly faded away as the sedative was forced into his body. The room around him blurred and he was lowered to the ground, the grasp on his friend's arm slipping._

_"You can't save everyone, Doctor," he heard, before falling into the darkness._

* * *

John woke in a cold sweat and jerked upright, panting. His heart was racing, the darkness around him suffocating.

John buried his face in his hands and tried to calm himself. _It was just a nightmare_. _Sherlock is fi-_

The truth hit hard as the memories come back to him. He felt like laughing at his foolishness, thinking about all of the other nights the same thing had happened. Every time he woke up from a nightmare there was always that brief reprieve where he believed everything to be back to normal. A moment of beautiful ignorance before he was swallowed once more in the black depths of the truth.

John made a disgusted noise and threw the blankets off. He went to stand up but lurched forward, barely catching himself on the wall next to the bed. _Bloody leg,_ he cursed vehemently. In the cloud of confusion following the nightmare, he had forgotten about the returned limp. _Psychosomatic my arse_, he thought. _Bloody feels real enough to me_.

He left the room, subconsciously thanking himself for forgetting to change clothes before falling into bed. It made his quick escape much easier. All he had to do was grab the coat that hung on the wall in the hallway before exiting the flat, locking the door behind him.

The streets were chilly and abandoned, as they always were. A sense of isolation floated around the empty air, encompassing John in its loneliness. He had grown accustomed to the feeling and welcomed it. Lately it seemed to be his only companion.

John wandered about with no particular destination. There never was. Distraction was all he needed, and walking always calmed his nerves.

Perhaps an hour later he realized how desolate of a street he was walking on, particularly run-down. Instantly he jumped to attention, cursing to himself. He really ought to become more aware before he got himself into real trouble. _Or maybe that's what you want_, whispered a voice from the back of his mind. He pushed the thought away and looked around.

The name of the street was unfamiliar but a nearby building looked like one he had seen before. Maybe he had walked through here on one of his previous nocturnal adventures, he thought.

As he was turning to back-peddle, a black vehicle slid noiselessly along the curb next to him, the headlights off and windows tinted.

John froze. His first instinct was to run, but he knew the action would be pointless. There was no one around to witness anything and he wouldn't get far with his limp. The adrenaline coursed trough his veins as he steeled himself. He wasn't going down without knocking someone around first.

The door was thrown open and a woman in a well-tailored skirt suit holding a mobile phone in her hand stepped out.

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson," she said, and John instantly recognized her.

A million thoughts were running through his head. Why had Mycroft sent his people to get him? What could he possibly want? The last time John had seen him had been at the funeral and that had been months ago. He hadn't tried to make contact since then.

"What for?" John asked.

"You really don't have a choice."

"Hard to argue that one," he said gruffly, the rebellious part of him protesting as he walked towards the vehicle. He knew trying to walk away at this point would be unsuccessful.

Once to the door, he paused, looking at the woman. The only name he put to her was Anthea, and he knew it wasn't her real one. He gestured for her to go first.

"Oh no, I'll be riding in the front, you see," she said, and proceeded to open the passenger side door and disappear inside.

With a confused grunt, John entered the spacious vehicle himself. Instantly he understood why not-Anthea was sitting in front, for next to him sat Mycroft Holmes himself.

"Good evening, John. Well, morning now, I suppose," Mycroft said in his usual tone.

"I hardly see anything good about it," John replied, noticing the glass window that separated the front seat from the back.

Mycroft wore the same indifferent exterior that John had grown accustomed to, but there was something different. He seemed more...weary, tired almost, and John noticed a couple of gray hairs that weren't there before.

"A matter of judgement, I suppose. The sky does look so lovely. Makes the morning good enough, in my opinion, though it could do with a little-"

"Cut the bullshit and get to the point," John interrupted, patience wearing thin. He was already sitting in a vehicle with a man he very much didn't want to be near; he didn't feel like being patronized on top of it.

"You never were one to dawdle, were you, John. My brother always...admired that, if you will. Though it's hard to imagine Sherlock admiring anything. You do know how he was-"

"Why am I here?" John asked, tight-lipped. His stomach twisted and he forced the memories away, refusing to let them be reawakened by Mycroft's musings.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft said. "Cutting to the point of things."

"Yes, and then drop me off at my flat, if you will," John added spitefully.

"Yes, yes of course. Already on the way. But first I must reprimand you. These little nightly adventures of yours seem to continually edge towards dangerous, John. Perhaps in the future you should rethink. I'd hate for my people to have to drag you out of a shady alleyway."

John glared. "Then perhaps you should mind you own bloody business and stop following me," he seethed.

"I cannot John. You understand. Or perhaps not," Mycroft added, glancing towards him.

"I have not come on this little adventure to convince you to quit you wandering, though. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about," Mycroft said, this time looking pointedly at John.

John said nothing but started to nervously tap his fingers on the door.

"'The return of a doctor,'" Mycroft says dramatically, instantly catching John's full attention. "That was the name of the article, yes?"

John thought about his story in the newspaper and nodded briefly, staring at Mycroft in consternation.

"It has been a while since you've been in the public's eye, John, and to say it's caught the attention of some people would be an understatement."

"So you're saying..."

"You may or may not have attracted some, shall we say, unwanted attention. I wanted to advise you to lie low for a bit. Just as a precaution of course," Mycroft said.

John chuckled. "Oh, alright, so pretty much just keep doing what I'm doing, right? Not attracting much attention that way."

"Just be careful, John," Mycroft said, clearly unamused.

"Oh, I always am," John replied as the car slid to a stop. It seemed he was closer to home that he had thought.

"So nice to have had this chat with you," Mycroft said, staring intently at John, his expression unreadable.

"Wish I could say the same."

Mycroft's mouth quirked up at one corner and John opened the door, the cool air instantly blasting his face.

"Take care, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as John exited the vehicle. He then pulled the door shut and the car drove off as silently as it came.

"Right," John muttered to himself, watching it disappear down the street.

It was a brief car ride, but John felt a sense of unease go through him at what was discussed. _Unwanted attention_, he thought.

Taking a brief look around the empty street, he turned around and took the key out of his pocket as he walked up to his flat door. When he pushed it in and twisted it, though, the normal resistance he felt when unlocking it wasn't there. It was already open.

John thought back. Had he forgotten to lock the door? It was possible. It was happened a couple of times now.

Twisting the knob, he entered, making sure to lock it behind him this time. He took his coat off and hung it back up before limping into the living room, his cane making a faint _click_ against the wooden floor.

Once he turned the light on in the room, he froze.

Sitting on the counter was a cup of tea. Under other circumstances, he would have thought that perhaps he had left it there himself. He knew that not to be true, though, as he watched the steam rise up and dissipate.

That was not the only thing he noticed, though, upon entering the room, and it wasn't even the first thing.

No, the first thing he noticed was the blue scarf that had made its home on his floor was gone.

* * *

**AN: **Chapter 6 will be up next Wednesday, November 28. Have a great Thanksgiving!


	7. Chapter 6

**AN: **I hope that everyone's Thanksgiving was great. Thanks for commenting on and following my story, you amazing, wonderful few! Just so that it's understood, Silene is the woman we all refer to as Anthea. Enjoy!

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Chapter 6: Visitor

"Sir, I have a report of another one."

"Oh, what could it possibly be now?" he asked irritably.

"This one is claiming that the doctor is just an 'attention-starved old man'."

He snorted. "Old man indeed. And who would be our ambitious reporter?"

She looked at her phone. "It would seem it is one Stuart Hopkins."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "Somehow I am not surprised. That cretin would find something unsound to say about a mannerly old woman if it got him the attention he wanted. That's the thing with reporters. They're always in need of another story, whether it be real or not," he murmured, more to himself.

The woman, commonly known as Anthea, cleared her throat. "Another thing sir," she said.

"Hmm? Oh yes. What is it?" Mycroft asked.

"There was activity picked up in Watson's apartment twenty-seven minutes ago. The subject was not...interceded," she said, putting emphasis on the last word.

Mycroft understood instantly. "I was wondering how much longer he would stay away this time. Poor John probably has a bit of a shock waiting for him." Mycroft fell silent lost in his own thoughts. His agents had observed John walking out in the streets in distress more often of late, making it seem as if he was getting worse, which made no sense. He should be getting better if anything; that was how the mourning process worked, wasn't it?

Mycroft sighed and settled himself farther into the car seat. He never was one for sentiment. Emotions just confused him and he preferred to keep his mind unclouded. It was necessary, really, to keep his feelings at arms length considering his occupation.

The car turned and slowed to a stop in the driveway of Mycroft's mansion. Without hesitating, Mycroft got out and strode to the front door.

"Wait!" he heard behind him before Silene appeared breathless beside him. In one hand she held a gun and the other was holding her phone to her ear. "There's been a security breach-"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and held up his hand. "You know as well as I do who it is."

"Sorry, sir. Protocol. Can't risk it," she was saying as Carlson, the agent who had been driving, joined them with gun also drawn.

Mycroft sighed, relenting, and opened the door, allowing Silene and Carlson to forge ahead of him. Calmly, he walked straight through the enormous entry hall without waiting for them. He knew exactly where to go. As he walked deeper into his mansion, the sound of a violin being played confirmed his suspicion.

He walked through one of the parlors and to the door on the other side of the room. Opening the door, the violin music enveloped him.

The man standing by the window didn't acknowledge Mycroft's presence, not even as he quietly closed the door behind him.

Unwilling to be the first to speak, Mycroft busied himself by observing the room. It was much the same as he had left it when all of Sherlock's possessions were delivered. After John had moved out of 221b, Mrs. Hudson had asked Mycroft to take Sherlock's things because she hadn't wanted to throw them out and couldn't stand the thought of giving them away. Mycroft's people had picked everything up the day John left and stored everything away in the unused room.

There were stacks of books and random notes neatly piled up in one corner. Boxes of clothes sat all along the wall and on a desk was a microscope along with other various equipment. The only thing Mycroft noticed out of place was the violin case that sat opened at the man's feet.

Finished with perusing the room, he observed the man. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a thick black zip-up over a black shirt. Though the clothing was bulky, Mycroft could tell that he was reasonably skinnier than the last time he had seen him. He had grown a dark, scraggly beard and his hair had grown out also.

Finally the man drew the bow across the strings in the middle of the melody, making a horrendous noise. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the antics

"I would prefer if you didn't stare," he said without turning around.

"Can't help myself. I'm remembering the last time I saw you so...disheveled."

Finally the man turned around and Mycroft saw his face for the first time.

There were shadows under his eyes and his features were more angular. He looked tired, but there was a fierceness to the way that he looked around the room, as if he was ready for anything to happen.

"Bring back bad memories, does it?" the man asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Mycroft thought about making a snarky remark, but stopped himself. The last few months, no matter how he had tried to deny it, he had feared for his brother's life. Three months he hadn't known his brother's whereabouts or health. He wasn't going to bicker with him for the short while he had him there, safe.

"Yes it does," Mycroft said, looking him straight in the eye and taking a step forward. For a second, a flicker of surprise crossed the man's face before it was replaced with an unreadable expression, but Mycroft could see his mind working.

The man cleared his throat. "I did not come here to reminisce about when I was using."

Mycroft blinked. "Of course. Why don't we get down to business, then? Why are you here?" he asked, not unkindly.

"I came to ask you for help."

It was Mycroft's turn to be shocked. Never would he have imagined his proud younger brother asking _anyone_ for help- except for maybe John.

Mycroft gestured for him to continue.

His face darkened. "I fear someone in Moriarty's web may know I'm alive."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "And how is that?"

"I don't know," he said as if the words physically pained him.

"Well what made you think that, then?"

The man slowly walked towards the table, brushing his fingers over the eye piece of the microscope before continuing. "A couple weeks back I interceded one of Moriarty's top tradesmen dealing with highly illegal weaponry. He was on his way to Scotland to make a deal with a German assassin. Once he awoke he instantly recognized me. In fact, his exact words were, 'Sherlock Holmes. I was warned you were still alive.'"

"Did he say how he knew?" Mycroft asked more urgently.

"After a while he was more willing to talk, and he gave me a name. One 'Sebastian Moran'."

Mycroft involuntarily took in a breath.

"Odd," he continued, ignoring Mycroft's reaction. "The name seems to be popping up quite often."

"That's because he's-"

"I know exactly who he is," Sherlock interrupted. "I know who he was and who he is now, and frankly I would prefer if he did not know I was alive. It could make things...difficult. And dangerous.

"Mycroft," he said, looking up from the trinket he had been toying with on the table next to him. "I'm asking you to do something for me."

Mycroft didn't hesitate to reply. "I will do...almost anything to help, Sherlock," Mycroft said, the unspoken words filling the space between them. _"I will do almost anything to make up for what I did."_

Sherlock nodded slowly, never breaking their eye contact.

Finally he took a deep breath as if steadying himself. A look of almost pain crossed face before it was covered once more by his cool facade.

"I need your protection."

Mycroft opened his mouth, confused, but before he could say anything Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be absurd, the protection isn't for me. No, I need you to watch over Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John," he said, his voice getting strained as he said John's name. "If it is found out that I am alive, then there will be people coming for those three and this whole ruse will have been for nothing. It can't have been for nothing, Mycroft," he said, his voice silently pleading and Mycroft knew his thoughts were on John.

Mycroft could tell, then, that Sherlock knew how poorly the doctor faired. Five seconds in his apartment would have told the former detective that, but there was something about the way Sherlock seemed consumed by the thoughts of the doctor that made it obvious he knew more than he was telling.

Mycroft broke the silence. "I'll organize their protection right away. They wont stub a toe without my agents knowing. I will do what ever is in my power to protect them, Sherlock," Mycroft said, taking another step closer.

They shared a silent moment of understanding, of common-ground. Though he would never admit it, Mycroft knew that somehow John Watson had wiggled his way behind his armor, the same he had done with his brother. Yes, Mycroft grudgingly care for John, but he was more concerned with how Sherlock would take it if something were to happen to John Watson; somehow the doctor had managed to bring a more human side out of Sherlock. Who knew what his brother would be like afterwards if something were to happen to him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, breaking the silent communication. "Thank you. Mycroft," he said, each syllable sounding as if it were being forced out of him, but Mycroft heard the sincerity nonetheless.

He nodded. "Would you need anything else, brother dearest?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and turned away from him. "No. Actually, I've got to dash. I have a very important meeting that I'm sure my...client wouldn't want to miss," he said walking towards the far wall where he had left his violin by the window.

"No food? Shower? Clothes?" When this elicited no response, Mycroft continued. "At least stay the night. You look as if you're about to drop dead at any moment."

"Oh, I will drop dead, brother, though I assure you it will not be by cause of something so simple as lack of sleep," Sherlock said, pulling the curtains back from the window.

A sort of emptiness filled Mycroft's stomach. He didn't do 'emotions', but he thought he knew what this one was. _Sadness._

Mycroft crossed the room to where Sherlock stood opening the window, noticing the way Sherlock stiffened as he approached.

Mycroft hesitated and then placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Do...be careful, little brother," he said, trying to put sincerity into what he was saying.

Seeming to be at a loss for words, Sherlock simply nodded, and Mycroft removed his hand from his shoulder.

"You know, you could just use the back door," he said.

Sherlock's cheek quirked up in half a smile. "Yes, but where's the fun in that?" he said, before sliding down and disappearing into the night.

* * *

**AN: **The next chapter should be up next Monday, December 3rd. Love to all!


	8. Chapter 7

**AN: **Again thanks to everyone who follows. This chapter is a little shorter and doesn't have much plot development, but I felt it was necessary to understand John a little better. Enjoy!

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Chapter 7: A Lunch Date

There were muffled shouts coming from outside, along with an incessant beeping that was abruptly cut off, much to John's relief. He had gotten back to his flat around four in the morning the previous night and was trying to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before rising for the day when the noises had started up. Groaning, he gave up any attempt, untangling himself from the bed sheets and righting his body into a sitting position on the side of the bed. Wearily, he rubbed his eyes and sighed, remembering the dream he had before waking up.

He had been in Afghanistan in the middle of a firefight once more. He didn't know where his comrades had gone and he was trying to find them in the dust covered village. Turning right at an intersection, he hugged the building next to him, but before he could advance any farther he heard the familiar _ting_ of a grenade being thrown and landing on gravel. John hadn't had time to react, but a split second before the grenade blew up another body slammed into him, ramming him into the street a couple feet away. The force of the impact and the explosion at the same time disoriented John for a couple seconds and left his body sore and beaten, but when he finally had a grip of himself he sat up to thank the person that had just saved him- and froze. A pair of blue-silver eyes were staring back at him.

John remembered the way his dream-Sherlock had looked over his shoulder, eyes widening in understanding before yelling "John!" and throwing himself over his body. There was the sound of a gun and John felt the body on top of him jerk and lie still. The sudden panic that allowed him to push the taller man's frame off of his own blocked out the sounds of more gun shots and the thud of another body falling feet away from his own.

John shook his head, trying in vain to rid the image from his mind. He had seen his best friend dead far too much of late but his subconscious didn't seem to care.

Getting up, John exited the room to put some water on for tea. He once again found his eyes drawn to the spot on the floor where the scarf had disappeared a couple days ago. His initial reaction when he noticed the cup of tea and the absence of the scarf was to call the police, but he had remembered what Mycroft had just told him. He didn't want to do anything that might attract anybody's attention, and a quick walk around the flat told him that nothing had been stolen- besides the scarf. He had decided it was unnecessary to get the authorities involved.

But the cup of tea had bothered him. Why would somebody break into his flat and brew a cup? Had he just left one out before leaving that night? Well it was a possibility, but even if he had there was know way the cup would have still been that warm. No, it wasn't him, and the thought of someone sneaking into his flat and making a cup of tea baffled him.

Soon he found himself sitting with his own cup of tea and staring at the wall. He had nothing else to do seeing as he had officially given up on newspapers after finding an article a couple days ago that bashed his public image. He had expected it so he wasn't at all surprised to see it, and quite frankly didn't care either. But he wasn't going to waste his time reading articles that may be just as inaccurate as the one written about him.

John sighed and closed his eyes, the cup of tea clutched tightly between his hands, warming them. He was meeting Harry in a restaraunt for lunch later and he was dreading it. He knew he couldn't act around her the way he had been; the last time he saw her was the day of the funeral and she would want to know he was getting better. He had received a couple of calls from her since then and had lied saying that he was still attending appointments with his therapist. The truth was he just didn't care anymore. Sitting on a chair in a stuffy office talking about feelings he couldn't even express didn't help him. How did he explain the emptiness that he felt since his friend's death? Or the pointlessness he felt towards his own life now? It was like his old days before Sherlock- except worse. He knew he was depressed, of course he was, but he had no motivation to do anything about it. He had thought that moving out of the old flat would help him, but instead he found himself missing the cluttered rooms. The shadows seemed to follow him wherever he went.

John finished his tea and then left to make himself presentable. It had been a couple of days since he shaved and he had developed a considerable amount of scruff in that time. After that he dug around a bit to find a clean jumper and pair of jeans.

Satisfied enough with his appearance, John grabbed his jacket and walked out the front door. It was around noon and the sidewalk in front of the building was abnormally busy. A couple of men were carrying boxes from a moving truck into the empty flat next door. As he watched the activity, he realized that they were probably the source of the noises that had woken him earlier.

Then the significance of the moving truck hit him. It couldn't have been more than a week since the flat next to him was vacated and already someone had claimed it.

_Great. A new neighbor_, he thought grumpily, before hailing a cab.

* * *

"So, how are your appointments going?"

John didn't even blink as he replied, "Fine." He even added a smile for good measure. If he felt a slight twinge at lying outright to his sister he pushed it away and took another bite of the pasta he had ordered for the sake of appearances.

Harry narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but said nothing.

Though she seemed to be fine, John could see stress in the lines around her mouth. She claimed that she had sobered up months ago, but John suspected that she still resorted to the bottle now and then.

If he still cared about anything, it was his sister. That was why he was trying so hard to make it seem like he was okay; he wasn't going to add to her problems, and he knew she had quite a few. From what he gathered she was on and off with Clara, but their relationship was rocky at best. Then to add to that she had been laid-off of her job and was barely hanging on financially. She had some money saved up in her banking account, but not enough to last longer than the month, especially not if she was constantly restocking her alcohol supply.

Harry set her fork down and stared at John, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Knowing there was no use trying to avoid it, John set down his own utensils and interlaced his hand on the table in front of him, meeting her eyes.

"Yes?"

"If your appointments are going so well, then why did your therapist tell me that she hadn't seen you in two months?"

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

Harry sat back in her chair and crossed her arms with an expression that made it clear she wasn't believing any of it. "When I called as a concerned family member, asking how you were doing, I was told that you no longer scheduled appointments." John opened his mouth to interrupt, but Harry held up a hand, stopping him. "No. Do not give me some bloody bullshit about going to someone else, either.

"Listen, John," she said, her voice getting softer. "I am your sister and I care about you. Now how are you really doing? Because I know you aren't as well as you're trying to make yourself out to be."

John felt anger burning inside of him. Why did people have to pry? Why couldn't anyone just leave him alone? All he wanted was privacy, and yet people kept on insisting on bothering him. Mrs. Hudson hadn't left him alone the first week afterwards even though he told her he would rather be; then there was Lestrade popping in on him, asking questions that he preferred not to be asked; Mycroft, of course, couldn't pass up the chance, even though he'd already done enough damage. Hell, even the newspapers were having a go at him, and now here his sister sat prying him for things he didn't want to talk about. He felt like the world was trying to drive him bloody insane.

"I am fine, Harriet," John growled, emphasizing each word. He felt slightly guilty when he saw the shock and hurt on his sister's face, but the anger got the better of him and he continued. "I'm not a bloody child that needs to be watched over. I can take care of myself, which is something none of you seem to understand. So why can't you just leave. Me. Alone."

For a moment Harry just stared at him, her mouth set and grim. Finally she leaned down and grabbed her purse from where it was at her feet. Once she had it in her lap, she looked at John emotionlessly.

"We can't leave you alone, John, because we care about you. Something you don't seem to understand." And with that she stood up, grabbed her coat, and calmly walked out of the café.

For a while John just stared at the coffee in front of him. Finally, he dropped his head into his hands, fully realizing what he had just done. He was slowly but surely pushing everyone that cared about him away. A part of him was angry, another part satisfied, but mostly he just didn't care.

Standing up, he grabbed his coat and threw a couple of bills on table before exiting.

* * *

**AN: **So short and choppy. Next chapter up Thursday, hopefully a little better...


	9. Chapter 8

**AN: **Special thanks to and Raychaell Dionzeros and MadameGiry25 for their reviews! Enjoy :)

* * *

Chapter 8: The Neighbor

It was by chance that he ran into the woman the next day in a nearby grocery store. He was reaching for a carton of milk when he heard a clamor nearby and suddenly a carton of eggs was splattered on the floor near his foot. Drops of it landed on the bottom of his jeans and on his right shoe.

"Just my luck," John grumbled, as a panicked voice spoke up and he turned towards a young woman, probably in her 20s.

"Oh my god I am so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to-" she rushed forward and bent down, her shaking hands righting the egg carton and placing broken pieces of egg shell into it.

"It's fine," John mumbled, grabbing the milk and turning to leave.

"Wait!" the woman said to his back. "Is there anything I can do- anything at all?"

John turned and looked back at her, noticing her pretty face which was now screwed up in embarrassment and sheepishness. "No. Really it's fine," he reassured before turning his back on her once more.

"Wait..." she said again, more hesitant. "Do I know you?"

John groaned internally and turned back around to face her. "No. I have no idea who you are, so I don't know how you would know me."

The woman stared at him, a look of concentration crossing her features. She still knelt on the floor, seemingly unaware of the egg white that was currently soaking into her navy blue jeans. Suddenly her face lit up. "No, no. I do know you! You live in the flat next to mine."

It wasn't hard for John to realize then that she must have been the one that moved into the empty flat. "Oh. Yes. You're my new neighbor. Right," he said awkwardly, debating doing the polite thing- continuing the conversation- or doing what he wanted to do- just walking away. He started to do the latter, but the woman spoke up, making him reluctantly stay put.

"Can I...buy that for you?" she asked, gesturing to the milk he held. "You know, to make up for hitting you with my eggs?" She stood up and gave him a small, hopeful smile. Despite this, John shook his head.

"It really is fine," he repeated. He was saved from having to continue when an elderly janitor walked around the corner and noticed the spill. Another wave of apologies started and John found himself able to slip off as the mess was cleaned up.

Paying for his milk, John exited the shop and walked out onto the sidewalk to begin his trek back to the flat.

Right now London was bitterly cold, the wind nipping at John's nose and ears as he limped along. The store wasn't far from his flat, perhaps another 10 minutes if he kept going at the pace he was moving. For once he was in a rush to get back; the sooner he did, the sooner he would be able to curl on the chair with a cup of Earl Grey.

A few minutes passed with houses, cars, and streets going by in a blur. No one else was out, preferring to avoid the cold. By then John's feet were numb and his leg was stiffer than he remembered it ever being. As he moved along, he heard a car approach and slow down from behind, resting in neutral.

John kept moving, ignoring the slam of the car door.

"Hey!" he heard somebody cry out, and John rolled his eyes in exasperation. Today really wasn't his day, he decided, as the woman from the market ran up to him and he turned around. "Would you like a ride back?" she asked breathlessly.

John went to turn down her offer, but seeming to sense his decision the woman interrupted. "It isn't out of the way- we're both going to the same place. And plus, it's freezing out. You have to be chilled to the bone! And I have to make up for the eggs somehow." Again the hopeful look returned.

John groaned internally and nodded, relenting.

"Great!" the woman cried, beckoning him to follow her as she retreated to her awaiting car. John complied and slid into the passenger seat. The woman turned a couple dials and warm air instantly blasted them.

"So what's your name anyway?" she asked, pulling away from the curb."

"John."

"Does John have a last name?" she asked, a smile curling on her lips.

"Watson. John Watson," he said reluctantly, awaiting the recognition. To his relief she didn't even twitch, just nodded in acceptance.

"Well I'm Rebecca. Rebecca Bantason, if interested," she said, shooting him a look from the corner of her eye.

John didn't reply, just continued to stare out the window. He could now somewhat feel his feet, but the heat had yet to reach his toes. His leg was a whole other story; though it was warming up, it still ached hollowly and John was antsy to get home to take some pain medication.

"So..." Rebecca started, sounding hesitant. "What happened? To you leg I mean. Er, if you don't mind me asking..." When John didn't respond right away she hurriedly started talking again. "It's fine if you don't want to talk about it, of course, I was just-" she cut off abruptly, growing red in the cheeks.

John took pity on her, wanting to remedy the now uncomfortable atmosphere in the vehicle. "Afghanistan," he said by way of explanation, though it wasn't entirely true.

"Oh," she said softly, and John noticed her start to chew her bottom lip nervously. He turned to look back out the window.

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes before she spoke again. "My brother served in Afghanistan," she said emotionlessly. John nodded but didn't look at her. "He just came back a couple months ago," she continued. "In fact, he's actually going to be staying with me until he can get back on his feet. You're more than welcome to come over and talk..." she trailed off, realizing the conversation was going nowhere.

The silence in the car grew uncomfortable, but neither of them volunteered anymore information. Finally after another minute the vehicle turned onto their street and parked on the curb in front of the building.

As soon as the car stopped John unlocked the door and opened it. "Thanks for the ride," he said, about to shut the door.

"Thanks for being understanding about my clumsiness," Rebecca shot back. "Seriously though, it was the least I could do to make it up to you."

John nodded and shut the door behind him as he limped to his flat. He heard the car door slam behind him before Rebecca called out.

"Forgetting something?" John turned around to see her walking towards him. One arm had her purse and a grocery bag hanging on it. In her other hand she held up his carton of milk.

"Oh, right, thanks," John muttered, taking the carton from her outstretched hand. As he did that, the door to the flat next to his, opened.

The man was probably in his thirties. His hair was dark, same color as his facial hair, and cropped short. His eyes instantly surveyed John as he stepped out the door.

"Oh, Marise!" Rebecca said, a surprised look crossing her face. "I didn't know you were going to be here yet."

The man, Marise, turned his probing gaze from John to Rebecca. "It didn't take long to pack all of my things. After all, I don't have very many possessions. I took a cab and arrived her about an hour ago. Where have you been?"

Rebecca looked sheepish. "Sorry, I've been out running errands. Actually, I just got back from the store where I happened to run into John here," she said, gesturing towards where John stood stiffly. He was once again contemplating the pros and cons of just walking away, of just turning around and entering his flat, but the considerate part of his mind convinced him otherwise.

"John, this is my brother Marise," she continued, pronouncing it "More-eese". "Marise, this is John, our new neighbor."

Marise's gaze was steady as he looked John in the eye and extended his hand to shake. John complied and noticed how tightly the man gripped his hand before letting go.

"Marise, John served in Afghanistan too," Rebecca said carefully.

If possible, Marise's gaze sharpened and he scrutinized John even more.

"Sniper," Marise said.

"Excuse me?" John asked, getting uncomfortable with the unwavering gaze.

"I served as a sniper for four years."

"Oh, um, medic," John muttered.

"They sent you home because you got injured, didn't they." It was more of a statement, but John nodded anyway. "Did you get shot in the leg?"

"Marise!" Rebecca interrupted. "That's not very polite! Don't make him talk about it if he doesn't want to!"

Marise turned towards her and they shared a look that made John feel uncomfortable, as if the two were conversing about him without his knowing.

Finally Marise nodded and faced John again. "She's right. I'm sorry to have pried, John," he apologized.

"It's alright," John muttered, then hesitated. "It wasn't the leg," he added, unsure of why he got the urge to volunteer any information.

"What?" Marise asked, eyebrow quirked up in confusion.

"I didn't get shot in the leg. It was my shoulder."

Marise nodded as if it was as he had suspected.

"Well, it was nice meeting you," Marise said, much to John's relief. "I believe my sister and I have some arrangements to talk about."

"Oh yes!" Rebecca acknowledged, walking to her brother's side and facing John. "It was nice meeting you, though I apologize about the circumstances."

"No worries," John reassured her, hurriedly getting his key out, eager to escape the cold.

"Oh, and John," Rebecca started, making John groan internally. "You can come over for dinner or tea any time you want. Really, feel free," she insisted, and John accepted the invitation with a nod and a small smile before he managed to get himself inside.

The sudden quiet was soothing, and John yearned for that cup of tea and pain meds. Those were his first priorities, warming up and eliminating the burning sensation in his leg.

Hanging his coat, John walked into his foyer and placed the milk into the fridge, cursing it. It bettered be good, he thought, because he didn't remember the last time he had gone threw so much trouble for a single carton.

* * *

**AN: **So things are going to start moving along quickly after this. Next chapter will be up Tuesday. Feel free to review!


	10. Chapter 9

**AN: **I'm not sure why, but I really like this chapter, so I hope you do too!

* * *

Chapter 9: A Sign

It had been a busy day and Molly Hooper was yearning for her bed and a nice cup of cocoa. She had just finished writing up her third and last report of the day. As she was grabbing her coat and purse getting ready to leave, the doors opened and a man walked in.

"Oh. Mike!" she said in surprise. It had been a while since she'd seen Stamford; they worked in different parts of the building due to the differences in their occupation. The only time she had ever really seen him down their was when he was chatting with Sherlock.

"Hullo, Molly!" he said exuberantly. "Did I catch you on the way out?"

"Oh, yeah, actu-"

"Good, good. I actually wanted to talk to you. Would you be interested in getting a drink with me?"

"Oh, um..." Molly stalled, thinking. She really did want to get home, but it was so unexpected and she didn't want to be rude. She could also tell that there was something bothering him despite his jolly outlook. "Oh, why not," she said finally, smiling at him.

"Excellent," he said, holding his arm out for her. She complied with a small laugh, and together they walked out of the morgue.

Neither said anything as they walked through St. Bart's corridors and exited through the front. Molly was waiting for Mike to start the conversation, seeing as it was he who wanted to talk to her. Finally, as they strolled along the sidewalk in the dark of the evening, Mike spoke.

"Do you know what day it is?" Mike asked, his voice turning strange.

Molly stiffened, an icy feeling developing in the pit of her stomach. Yes, she knew what today was, had known from the moment she woke up. She nodded her head mutely and looked away.

"I can hardly believe it," Mike murmured, dropping his arm to his side, their connection severed. Molly awkwardly dropped her arm also. He gave a dry, humorless laugh, all of his previous joy forgotten. "Half a year already. He's been gone for half a year."

Molly nodded again, not meeting his gaze as they approached the café.

"I forget sometimes. That he's gone, that is," Mike continued, looking straight ahead. "I find myself heading towards the lab thinking that I'd just drop in for a chat. Halfway there I realize that I can't and turn around, head back the way I came.

"He was a bloody cheek," Mike added with a chuckle, "but he was brilliant. Really, truly brilliant."

He cut off as they entered the café and quickly ordered, Mike insisting on paying for Molly's hot cocoa.

While he ordered, Molly stood off to the side chewing on her bottom lip, guilt gnawing at her insides. She wanted to tell him, to tell everyone, but she knew she couldn't. She had to keep the secret; peoples' safety depended on it, but that didn't make it any easier.

Mike returned carrying her drink and they sat down across from each other by the front window. They were silent for a bit, both lost in thought. Molly took the lid off her cup and absentmindedly blew on it's contents to cool it down.

"Have you heard from John at all?" Mike asked suddenly.

"What?" Molly asked, pulling herself out of her thoughts.

"I was wondering if you had heard from John at all recently," Mike repeated.

"Oh, um, no actually. I haven't."

Mike sighed and placed his glasses on the table, rubbing his face with his free hand. "Me either," he mumbled.

"But I do know he moved about two months back," Molly volunteered instantly, wanting to give him any information she knew.

Mike nodded and placed his glasses back on his face. "Yes, I heard that. But I haven't seen or heard from him since the funeral."

Mike leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them. "I'm worried about how he's doing, Molly. When I ran into John that day, the day I introduced him to Sherlock, he didn't seem to be getting along well. He returned to nothing when he came back from the war. His sister Harry was never really there for him. He didn't _have_ anything. Then when he moved in with Sherlock he found a reason to live again.

"But now...it will be worse now because he will have those memories of what his life used to be like. And they're going to taunt him, Molly. That's what I worry about."

Molly chewed on her lip again. Of course everything Mike said was true, and the thought that she couldn't ease John's pain with what she knew made her feel terrible.

Molly opened her mouth to tell him that she understood, that she was worried too, but a buzzing from her coat pocket interrupted her. She shot Mike an apologetic look, and took it out, confused as to who would be texting her.

Molly felt the blood drain from her face and her hands started shaking as she read the short text from a strange number.

"Is everything alright, Molly?" Mike asked worriedly, studying her reaction. Molly tried to get a grip on herself and looked up smiling.

"Of course. Something with the family came up is all. I'm sorry Mike, I'm going to have to cut our chat short. Thank you so much for the drink," she said hurriedly, standing up.

"Well, of course, but are you sure everything's fine? You look pale..."

"Oh, yes. No worries," she insisted, picking up her purse.

"If you're sure..." Mike said sounding unconvinced.

"Yep. It was nice chatting with you, Mike. Oh, well, um obviously not the topics. Those weren't nice..." Molly sputtered off, laughing nervously.

"Of course," Mike said, giving her a strange look and standing up also.

Needing to get out of there, Molly quickly gave him an awkward hug and rushed out into the streets.

The cool wind whipped her hair across her face and bit at her cheeks and nose, but she ignored all of this, consumed by the urgency she felt. She walked down the sidewalk quickly until she was able to wave down a cab and gave the man her address, asking him to hurry. She didn't care if she sounded pushy because she only had one thought running through her mind: the three-worded text she had read in the café.

_Deliver the package_.

* * *

The hours blurred into days, into weeks, into months. It was all the same, time going by both slowly and quickly, no way to differentiate it. It dragged and it lurched, but it always moved, and John felt himself getting lost in it.

Months it had been. Just months of staring at walls, of walking, of nightmares and memories. He questioned why he kept going, had been questioning for six months exactly.

Nobody cared, he knew. He had heard from Sarah once since moving and Harry twice since their lunch, but other than that nobody contacted him. The only communication he had with anyone was the occasional greeting between him and his new neighbors.

He felt no urge to do anything but sit, his blog completely forgotten and his laptop unused. Except for the occasional mundane activities, all he did was sit. He got lost in thoughts while at the same time trying to block them out.

So really he had no right to continue when there was nothing and no one to continue for. That's why he now sat on the edge of his bed, his pistol in hand, retrieved from the nightstand at his bedside.

_Just do it_, a voice urged, and he let himself imagine the bittersweet relief he would be blessed with if he did. No more memories, no more pretending, no more pain. That's all he wanted.

He flipped the safety off, and his hand started shaking.

_You're too much of a coward though, aren't you_, a voice in the back of his mind taunted. _You followed him into danger, yet you can't get yourself to follow him this one last time. You're too afraid._

"No," John muttered, cocking the gun. _I have nothing else left. No reason not to_.

An image of Harry sitting across from him passed through his mind. _"We can't leave you alone, John, because we care about you,"_ she had said.

_Where are you now, then?_ he thought bitterly.

He placed the barrel of the gun against his temple and closed his eyes.

_Six months,_ he thought. _I waited six months._

A sense of calm filled him, though his hands continued shaking. The thought that it would be over soon was what motivated him.

_I'm sorry Harry. I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Sarah, Mike, and Molly._

"I'm sorry Sherlock," he whispered and squeezed the trigger.

A loud noise filled his ears and his eyes shot open in surprise. The gun clattered to the floor and another noise filled the flat.

John stared at the gun at his feet wildly, in shock.

_You were about to kill yourself._

John's stomach lurched and he moaned, dropping his head into his hands trying to keep the tears back.

The noise filled the flat again, and John realized someone was ringing the doorbell.

"Just go away," John whispered roughly.

The bell rang out twice more, and John groaned, standing up. He lurched forward and caught himself on the wall, his legs unsteady beneath him. He groped for his cane, leaning against the wall. Finally his fingers grasped the handle and he pulled himself away, forcing his legs to move.

He paused in the hallway to regain his composure as best he could. He was shaking and knew he probably looked sick. He took a breath and continued to the door. John unlocked it and grasped the knob, swinging it open.

There was no one there.

He sagged against the door frame. It had taken him too long to come to the door, he guessed, so whoever had unknowingly saved his life had left.

John was about to close the door when he noticed the small box sitting on the ground. He kneeled down uncomfortably, setting his cane on the ground next to him, and grabbed the box.

There was no return address, he noticed. In fact, there was no postage on it at all, and he realized that whoever had rung his doorbell had left it there themselves. He looked up and surveyed the streets for any retreating figures. He or she couldn't have gotten that far in such short of time and there hadn't been any vehicles moving on the streets when he had opened his door. But there was no one out, no one at all. It was later, so most people were home eating and going through their normal nightly routines.

John pulled the box towards him, not caring to take it inside to open. It wasn't even taped up; the lips were just folded in on each other in a way that kept it closed. He pulled on one and all four simultaneously flipped open.

John froze, looking at its contents. His hands shook as he reached forward to to take it out, and suddenly the world fell away around him. He was so focused on the item in his hands that he did not notice the shades flicker next door. All he saw was the impossibility of what he held in his hands.

It was the scarf. The same one that had disappeared from his floor months ago.

* * *

**AN: **Let me know what you thought! Next chapter up probably on Friday


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: A Kidnapping**

Hands were on him, pulling him up. There were voices too, speaking, but his muddled mind couldn't understand what was being said. He felt himself being guided through a doorway and he was enveloped in warmth. Suddenly he found himself sitting on a comfortable chair.

A face entered his line of vision, and John's mind was finally able to focus. It was Rebecca, and her expression was worried. Her mouth was moving, and John was able to finally make out her words.

"John? John. Are you okay? Speak to me. What's wrong?"

John opened his mouth but he made no noise.

"Get a blanket for him," Rebecca called out, and within a couple of seconds one was draped over his shoulders. "Now John," she said soothingly, "tell me what's wrong. What is that?" she asked, pointing.

John realized that in his hands he still gripped the scarf, tightly enough that his knuckles were white.

"No, not possible" he muttered to himself. Yet there it was in his hands, the alternating shades of blue as familiar as the back of his hand.

"What isn't?" came a voice to his to his right. John recognized it but it took him a second to put a name to it. _Marise_. Without looking up, John shook his head, the gears in his mind turning quickly.

It looked like the same scarf, but then again it could have just been the same brand, color, design as Sherlock's. But no...it was obviously well used. John could tell by the loose stitching in some places and the patches that looked slightly discolored if scrutinized closely. The thing that convinced him that it wasn't just a random scarf, though, was the scent: cool London air, smoke, and chemicals. Just like Sherlock. And this scarf was taken from his apartment a month back. _Someone_ had to have broken in to take it...

_No_, John thought, desperately trying to repel the hope that clung to him. Hope was senseless. Someone had to be cruelly messing with him, trying to put that hope in his head to see him suffer when he discovered how groundless it was. But who would go through all the trouble? Though Mycroft came across as a cold and sometimes heartless individual, he couldn't see him doing anything like this; after all, he had much more important matters to attend to. Then Molly would have, of course, had access to the body, but she was such an affectionate, soft-hearted person that she would never attempt such an ill-intentioned action. So who, then? Was it some random nutter that had a strange infatuation with John, the same of which Moriarty had with Sherlock? Was he in danger?

The questions kept bombarding his mind like this until finally he dropped his face into his hands, the scent of the scarf filling his nose and taunting him. The murmurs of a conversation in the background reached his ears, and John looked up again. Off to his right on the other side of the room, Rebecca was whispering urgently to Marise. From the couple years of investigating cases, John had learned how to read body language and facial expressions pretty well, and right now Marise's seemed to scream impatience.

It was then John realized what a ridiculous situation he was in. Here he sat in the apartment of his new neighbors whom he had rarely seen or talked too, right after having what one might call an 'episode'. All because of a bloody scarf that someone was using to get to him. John tried to rationalized his overreaction: he was running high on emotions. He _had_ just tried to kill himself and the sight of Sherlock's old scarf had just set him off the edge. But now he needed to get himself out of the mess he had created. For the moment, John understood why Sherlock always saw emotions as a hindrance.

"Er, sorry. I should be going," John muttered, abruptly standing up. His interruption caused Rebecca to jump away from Marise and hurriedly rush to his side.

"No, no, darling, you stay right there," she said, grabbing his elbow and roughly jerking him back towards the chair.

"I'm fine, really," John tried to convince her, but she ignored him and forcefully pushed down on his shoulder until he was sitting again. He knew he could have resisted, could have just walked out, but her insistence had baffled him into admission.

"Why don't you explain what happened," Rebecca said sweetly, and finally John realized that something felt off. Her demeanor was changing from caring and concerned to cool and calculating.

"It was nothing," he said slowly, watching Rebecca's every reaction. She kept a soft smile that could have been considered comforting on her face, but John noticed her eyes tighten.

"What is that cloth?" she tried again, gesturing towards his hands.

John's face hardened. "I don't believe that's any of your business, so I'm just going to leave now," he stated angrily, getting up to leave. Instantly she was there, hands on both arms of the chair blocking him in.

"Sorry. You made it my business," she whispered, there noses a mere inch apart. Their gazes were locked in a type of showdown that John refused to lose.

"Enough," drawled a voice behind John. "Stop being so melodramatic, Rebecca," Marise ordered.

Rebecca sniffed in disdain, a grimace crossing her features as she backed up slowly, her arms falling away from the chair and no longer holding John back.

"Thank you," John muttered, shooting one last glare at Rebecca. He was honestly shocked by her behavior. She had seemed decent when he had met her and he never would have expected her to act like _this_. John turned to look at Marise as he stood up, but a hand landed on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"Doesn't mean you get to leave," Marise said.

John then realized that his first assessment of the situation was off. It no longer seemed ridiculous and instead turned dangerous. He was in this apartment with two strangers he had talked in depth with only once, and nobody knew where he was.

_Mycroft_, John realized, and hoped the sudden realization didn't attract any attention. Mycroft had pretty much admitted that his agents followed him around. Did that only apply to when he was wandering around at night, or was he watched at all times? John hoped for the latter. After a while, maybe his men would get suspicious and Mycroft would send people to investigate.

As if reading his mind, Marise walked around the chair to face John, and without breaking eye contact asked Rebecca, "How much time do we have?"

"I would guess six minutes," she called from somewhere behind Marise's form.

John glared up at Marise. "Six minutes until what?"

"Until they come looking for you, of course," Marise replied, surprising John. He wasn't expecting a straightforward answer, and even less so the answer he was given. So Mycroft did have people watching him (assuming "they" were his agents), but Marise and Rebecca knew they were coming too. It wasn't looking good, but at least he wasn't tied up.

"What do you want? Were you the ones who sent the scarf to me?" John asked gruffly, taking a shot in the dark.

"No, actually. In fact, we were also curious as to whom would have sent that to you. Any ideas, doctor?" Marise asked, the title more of an sneer than a sign of respect.

"Nope, none," John said, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together in his lap, looking up at Marise with raised eyebrows.

Marise's mouth tightened. "No more games, doctor," he hissed, leaning down the same way Rebecca had.

"Oh, we were playing a game? I do hope it it picks up a bit. It's rather dull at the moment," John said condescendingly, not flinching as Marise's face grew closer to his.

Marise stood up and and grinned down at John. "Then I shall not disappoint you, doctor. I promise things will become much more interesting." He then jerked his head to the left. "Go get her," he ordered Rebecca, and she complied silently.

John was confused, but he took the time to observe the man standing in front of him. He was probably around 6 foot and was noticeably muscular. He had said he was in the army, and John recalled Marise informing him that he had been a sniper. _So he can handle a gun_, John thought. _This just keeps getting better._

A bang was heard from the hallway, along with a muffled cry. Marise rolled his eyes but stayed where he was, watching John.

Dread filled him as Rebecca returned with a woman, her hands tied behind her back and her mouth gagged. The simple fact that they held another person hostage wasn't what made John sick to his stomach, though. It was the fact that he recognized and knew this woman.

It was Molly Hooper.

"Molly, what-" John started, making a move to stand up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Marise said, hold his hand out to stop John's action. "Where do you think you're going?"

"What do you want with her?" John asked angrily, clutching the armrests of the chair tightly. The scarf lay in his lap, forgotten.

"All in good time, doctor," Marise said with a pleasant smile.

Another choked cry came from where Rebecca stood. John looked up and met Molly's gaze. Her eyes were panicked and pained, but he also saw a great deal of determination. He tried to convey to her that it would be alright, that he would find a way to get them out of this, if only to save her. Somehow she had gotten dragged into this and he knew the fault was his.

"I still don't know what you want," John said tightly, turning to glare at Marise.

"Again, all in good time," Marise assured. "Right now, though, it's showtime."

Marise abruptly grabbed John's arm and yanked him up off of the couch. "Let's go," he called to Rebecca. She nodded, and John cried out as she pulled a gun out of the coat she now wore and aimed it at Molly's head. Molly grew very still, the opposite of John as he struggled to free himself.

"Oh, behave!" Marise ordered. John then felt cool metal touch the back of his neck, and he knew without a doubt that it was the barrel of a gun.

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**AN: **Next chapter up on Wednesday. Rewiews always welcome!


	12. Chapter 11

**AN: **It's a bit shorter and not as well written, but in my defense it was a rushed midnight-chapter. Anyways, welcome new followers and hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 11: Captive

Move," he was ordered from behind. Seeing no other option, John complied, walking slowly towards the doorway. Approaching the two women, it was easier to get a better look at Molly. There was a bruise developing on her left cheek and John could see a red mark starting to form where the gag was chafing against her skin. It was clear she hadn't been there long, but he could only imagine how much worse her wrists were. Up this close, he could also see the stress and panic in her eyes.

Their gazes locked for a few precious seconds, and John tried to convey to her that it would be alright. He couldn't tell if she understood, but she gave him an imperceptible nod as Marise grabbed his elbow and jerked him forward.

"Walk," he hissed, digging the barrel of the gun deeper into his neck. Like a dog on a leash, John did as he was told and walked quickly down the hallway. He could hear the footsteps of the two girls following behind them as they reached the door.

Marise pulled John to a stop. "Now. There's going to be a car out there waiting for us. You are going to get inside that car and there is nothing the agents hiding out there can do- unless they want a bullet through each of your brains. Understood?" John refused to respond. "I'll assume that's a yes," Marise said before yanking the door open.

Right as the entourage stepped out of the flat, a black vehicle sped up and parked alongside the sidewalk in front of them, the back driver's side door thrown open.

The gun at his neck was repositioned at the side of his head and Marise's arm wrapped around John's torso from the back. In this new arrangement it was more difficult to walk quickly and John found himself unwillingly leaning back into Marise. The uncomfortably close position allowed John to hear his captor's calm, even breathing.

John had accepted long ago the fact that he was a target to be kidnapped. Sherlock had had countless enemies that saw John as an effective way to get to the detective. And through all of these incidents, John had noticed the differences between a captor that had done it many times versus someone who was very new at it. The fact that Marise knew everything, down to the amount of time that it would take Mycroft's agents to react, made it obvious that he had done his research. Also, his even breathing told John that he was very used to handling situations like this- ones of pressure and risk. _So he's a professional_.

All of this processed through John's mind as they made their deliberate crawl to the waiting vehicle. It was now nighttime and the streets were completely deserted. John hadn't known what to expect- police swarming the streets or agents armed on the sidewalks, maybe. But this? Unless Mycroft's agents were hiding, there was no one to notice their abduction.

As they reached the waiting vehicle, Marise twisted them around and back up into the car first, causing John to stumble and fall backwards into it. Marise pulled him in, none to gently. As he was situated upright, uncomfortably close to his captor, John watched Rebecca push Molly in and quickly slide in behind her.

"Go," Marise ordered, barely giving Rebecca time to shut the door as they sped away.

Smashed next to Molly, John placed his hand on her leg and gave it a gentle squeeze for comfort before removing it again. He couldn't risk drawing their captors' attention for the chance of getting in trouble. John was sure they would disapprove of any communication between the two.

Next to him, Marise leaned forward to talk to the driver over the center console, smashing John even closer to Molly. He did his best to avoid leaning on her arm due to the fact that she still had her restraints on and he could only imagine her discomfort.

John strained to hear what Marise was discussing with the driver, catching a snippet of conversation.

"They're going to being watching where we go," Marise was saying. "Find the quickest way out of the city and away from the cameras."

"I know what to do," the driver muttered.

John saw Marise's shoulders visibly stiffen.

"I thought you needed the reminding," he said softly, but John could hear the threat behind his words.

"Behave back here," Marise said, turning back towards John, and he climbed over the console into the passenger seat. Hesitantly, John scooted over, taking advantage of the vacated area.

Inconspicuously, John observed the door, a plan forming in the back of his mind. The door was locked but if he was quick he knew he would probably be able to get it unlocked in time.

"Don't get any ideas," Rebecca said warningly, speaking up for the first time since they entered vehicle. "You jump out that door, I shoot the bitch." For emphasis, she jammed her gun into Molly's side. Molly flinched, but to her credit she made no noise.

John stared forward cursing himself. He couldn't leave Molly, and her current state made it rather difficult to conduct a daring escape that got them both out alive. He would just have to wait until the next opportunity arose. John knew that if it were Sherlock instead of him he would have figured out eleven and a half different ways to get away by now. He would have also have figured out what their captor's wanted...

"Why are you doing all of this?"

Neither Rebecca nor Marise answered.

"I mean, why go through all this trouble to kidnap a mortician and an old army doctor? Seems a bit extreme, doesn't it?"

There was no reply. Growing frustrated with the lack of answers, John opened his mouth to continue his provocation, but Marise chose to interrupt him.

"It's simple, really, _doctor_. We need you as bait. And I suggest you stop talking now, or I'll gag you too." The man twisted around slightly, shooting a meaningful glare at John before turning back towards the front.

John processed the information he was given, ignoring the threat that was implied. So they were bait. But bait for who? The only important person John knew was Mycroft...

Was he now caught in the center of a feud between the government and a criminal group? Had he and Molly been abducted to get to Mycroft? But why would Molly ever matter to Mycroft? John didn't even know if they had ever spent time in a room together more than once.

More questions arose than he had before and John grew angry at himself. He felt he had all of the pieces in front of him to solve this very important puzzle, but he just couldn't find how they all fit together.

Taking a breath, John reviewed the day's events as if they held the key, but all he knew was that he had been about to kill himself (only an hour ago?) when his doorbell rang and an anonymous package showed up on his doorstep containing the scarf of his dead best friend that had been stolen from his flat a month ago. He didn't see how any of it fit together, and yet the scarf was important somehow. Marise had wanted to know who had delivered it. For whatever reason it was significant, but John hadn't the slightest clue why.

Then how had Molly been captured? How did she even fit into all of this? He hadn't talked to her in months, and now she was tied up next to him in a strange car speeding off to who-knows-where. Regardless of the time between their last communication, he still felt obligated to get her out of the situation.

John brooded as they drove, never sure of where they were. The driver took seemingly random turns at almost every possible moment, barely taking notice to signs and stoplights. The inside of the car was silent except for their breathing and the whir of the engine.

Eventually the lights of the city disappeared and were replaced by the headlights of the car. Every once in a while John got a glimpse of trees lining the road in the dark so he gathered that they were now in the country.

Suddenly the silence was broken and Marise leaned to the right muttering urgently to the driver.

"We've been followed for the last five miles by the same vehicle. How close is the stop?"

"It's still 12 miles away."

Marise cursed softly under his breath. "Turn the headlights off."

"What?" the driver asked, startled.

"I said turn the headlights off!"

"I won't be able to see the road then! How am I supposed to drive?"

John could only see half of Marise's face, but he was still able to get an idea in the dark. It was cool and calculating and almost _feral._

"Of course. You're right," Marise said lightly, but again John sensed a malevolent undertone to it. "You wouldn't be able to drive in the dark. I may have a solution though."

The driver's back was ramrod straight and his hands were holding into the wheel in a death-grip.

"Your services are no longer necessary," Marise murmured, and before John could process what he was doing, Marise launched himself over the center.

The car swerved dangerously and the door was thrust open. Molly let out a muffled cry, and Rebecca even grunted in shock. John held on to anything he could find as the vehicle jerked crazily. The struggle continued up front until there was a barely perceptible _click_, and many things happened at once. The shadow that was the two warring men diminished instantly and the door was slammed shut. The car slowed before straightening itself out and regaining a constant speed.

They were all shocked into silence as Marise calmly flicked the headlights off, the reality of the events hitting home. Next to him he could feel silent sobs shaking Molly's body and looking over he even saw the surprise on Rebecca's face.

"What was that?" John cried indignantly.

"It was necessary," Marise stated calmly, as if he hadn't just thrown a person out of a moving vehicle. "That should create a sufficient distraction for us to get away."

The horror settled on him, but John closed his mouth grimly. He comforted Molly as best as he could with a new understand of the precarious situation they were both in.

* * *

**AN:** Due to some inconveniences, it will be a couple of weeks until the next chapter. Expect it on Tuesday, January 2nd at the latest. I promise if I get the chance I'll post the next one. If not, happy holidays and hope you have a great new year!


	13. Chapter 12

**AN: **Looking back, I realized I gave you guys the wrong day but the right date. Sorry about that! Here's the next chapter.

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Chapter 12: The House

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. Looking out the back window, John saw no other vehicle, headlights or not. He constantly caught Marise glancing in the rearview mirror checking for the same, but he seemed to come to the same conclusion.

Eventually the vehicle started to slow and they turned left, the smooth road turning rough and bumpy under them. With the headlights off, John could see nothing except the shadowy forms outside, only slightly illuminated by the moon. Trees, he guessed, so they were in a forest.

The path winded and twisted through the woods as they steadily made their way deeper into the dark forest. A sick feeling of apprehension twisted in John's gut. The more secluded they were, the harder it would be for someone to find and rescue them. But on the other side, if they somehow managed to escape they could easily find somewhere to hide.

Molly had been sitting rigidly without making a sound. John slid his hand over to rest on her leg gently, a small but hopefully reassuring gesture. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed like her shoulders loosened, even if only slightly.

Marise had just carefully steered around another corner when the vehicle slowed down and they came to a rolling stop. With limited light it was hard to tell, but there looked to be some sort of building that sat ahead of them.

"Stay put," Marise grunted as he opened the door and disappeared in the dark. Only moments later he reappeared at John's side of the car and opened the door. Reaching a hand in, he grabbed a fistful of John's jumper and tugged him out of the vehicle. Following more unsteadily was Molly, after a prodding from Rebecca. As soon as they were all out, the gun reappeared at John's head.

"Move. And I recommend not running. Won't end up well for either of you."

John complied, walking forward casually, as if without a care in the world. Part of him was only doing it to taunt the other man, but mostly he just refused to show his captors any fear or weakness.

The four of them approached what looked to be a run-down house. They walked across a rickety old porch to the front door, the wood creaking under their feet as they moved. Marise opened the door ahead of them and Rebecca pushed them in, calling them a couple of nasty names. She was definitely not the cheerful, care-free person he had met at the store.

A switch was flipped, and suddenly there was light. John blinked a couple of times, letting his vision get accustomed to the brightness.

They were in what looked to be a living room. A couch covered with tears sat in the middle across from an old, sooty fireplace. The walls were bare and the faded yellow paint was chipping away. To their right was a door that was cracked open, and John was able to guess that it was the kitchen from the glimpse of a stove he got. Ahead of them was a hallway, two doors on the right, one on the left, and another at the end.

John charted out the area, making a mental map to store away for later. What really caught his attention, though, was the wood stack near the fireplace. Leaning up against it was a fire stoke, pointy edge down. If they had to fight their way out, it was a good thing to know what sort of weapons were available. Of course even a block of wood could be used, but neither would help much against a gun. Still, John stored the information away, his gaze casually swiping over all of it only once.

"Get them in the basement," Marise ordered, waving his gun casually at Rebecca. "I'll go let the others know we're here." She nodded and pushed the back of John's shoulder roughly and grabbed the top of Molly's arm, dragging her forward. Marise disappeared off to the right, into the kitchen.

So there were more people involved than just the two, John thought. How many others were there? Outnumbered, they had less of a chance to escape, and John's gut sank at the thought.

Rebecca led them to the second door on the right of the hall and opened it. A flight of stairs went down, the bottom of them disappearing in the dark.

Before John had a chance to react, he was pushed from behind and suddenly found himself toppling down the stairs. His head slammed into the corner of a step and John's mind went fuzzy with pain as the rest of his body was battered on the way down. He landed on the cement ground with a thud.

Curling into himself, John moaned quietly. Through the pain, he could hear muffled cries and then a curse.

"Stop struggling or I'll throw you down too!" someone snapped. Then there was the sound of a door slamming and he was thrust into complete darkness. Footsteps approached hesitantly but quickly and then there was someone leaning over him.

He groaned again and turned to lay on his back. Slowly, John started to gauge his injuries. The whole of his body felt bruised and battered, but the pain was mostly focused in his head and his left wrist. If he were to guess, he'd say it was at least fractured, and he had no doubt that he had a concussion.

There was more movement near him and a sort of choked, helpless noise. _Molly_, he realized, remembering her restraints. Slowly he sat up, and, gently, reached his hand up to feel where his head had made impact. It came away wet and John cursed under his breath. Definitely had to have a concussion.

"Molly?" he whispered, reverting his attention to finding her and getting rid of the restraints. There was a small grunt of confirmation in the darkness. "I'm going to try and find your wrists so that I can untie you okay?" he said, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness.

There was another grunt, and slowly John reach forward towards the noise, praying his hand didn't land on anything that would make them both uncomfortable. Luckily, he made contact with one of her shoulders and was able to simply slide his hand down her arm until he found her wrists.

Probing the restraint with the fingers of his good hand, he guessed it was duct tape. Knowing he wouldn't be able to tear through a couple layers of it, he felt around until he found the seam where it ended.

"It may take me a while to work the tape loose. I'll get the cloth off from around your mouth first and then you can explain to me what happened while I free your hands, okay?" There was no reply, but he imagined she nodded.

John felt his way up to Molly's neck where she turned, giving him better access to the knot in the back of the cloth. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he lifted his bad hand up and started to work the knot loose. Finally, after a minute or so, John was able to untie it.

Molly gasped out as soon as her mouth was free. "Oh my God John, are you alright?" she asked, voice frantic.

"Just a couple of bumps," John tried to reassure her as he worked his hands back down to her wrists. "What about you? Are you alright, Molly?" he asked as his fingers started working at the edge of the tape.

"Well, I can say I've been worse."

"They hit you," John said flatly, remembering the bruise he had seen developing on her cheek.

"Yes, well, they threw you down a flight of stairs."

John gave a soft chuckle, and then regretted it as a slice of pain stabbed at his head.

They fell silent for a moment. John had enough of the tape pulled back so that he could now get a good grip on it, and he started to yank. The tape gave way slowly as John carefully tried to remove it, aware of the slight stickiness around the edges of the restraint. It peeled away in loud ripping sounds, and after a couple moments of concentration, John had the tape completely off.

Molly gave a huge sigh of relief as she pulled her arms forward. John could easily imagine how stiff her joints would be now; after all, he had been in the same position countless times and knew what it felt like.

John's wrist hurt like hell and his head throbbed. The rest of his body ached along with it, and he could almost feel the bruises developing as they sat there. His stomach hurt, and he really hoped there wasn't any internal bleeding caused by the tumble; that would be mildly inconvenient.

"So how did they get you?" John asked after the silence.

He could feel Molly hesitate where she sat beside them. "I was walking down the sidewalk and they grabbed me," she said slowly.

"But why?" John asked, more confused.

Again Molly was silent as John waited for an answer. "I was delivering a package," she whispered reluctantly.

"A package? Wha-"

"John, listen to me," Molly said urgently, cutting him off. "There's something you need to know-"

Suddenly the door swung open, interrupting her mid-sentence. Light filtered down to them and then a switch was flipped, illuminating the entire room. John just had time to note that it was a large wine cellar before the figure at the top of the steps started its descent towards them.

Molly gasped and John looked towards her in alarm to find her staring at him. He grimaced, realizing she must have been looking at the blow to his head.

"I see Rebecca had a little bit of fun," Marise said, as he slowly made his way down the stairs. John glared back up at him, ignoring the throbbing in his head. He could feel the blood running down lazily5.

John stood up unsteadily as Marise reached the bottom of the stairs, Molly following suit. The man drew a gun from his waistband and aimed it in John's general direction.

"You're going to wish for something as sweet as that simple bump after I'm done with you. That is, if you don't cooperate," he said threateningly. "Now turn around and walk."

Slowly, John did as he was told, every instinct in him screaming not to turn his back on the man that held the gun up to him, but he really had no choice. Molly followed suit next to him, and together they led the way through, deeper into the room.

The ground and walls were made of cement, parts gouged out from its past. Six rows of old shelves stretched across the room, running parallel to one another. They were full of cobwebs, clearly having not been used for years. Wine bottles still showed up here and there, though, leftover from whoever had lived there.

They walked past all of the shelves until they came to the other end of the room. There was an open space that the lights didn't completely reach, and two chairs sat there in the shadows, waiting.

"Sit," Marise commanded, and then both John and Molly were shoved from behind towards the awaiting seats. Shooting a glare over his shoulder, John saw that Rebecca and another man had joined Marise. His stomach clenched when he saw rope in their hands.

Molly sat, her face pale, and John copied her stiffly. He glared at Rebecca as she approached him, a sneer on her face.

"How's your head?" she whispered near his ear as she disappeared behind him. John stared ahead, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Suddenly she jerked both of his arms back and he barely held in a cry as she tugged on his injured wrist, binding both of them together tightly.

The injury screamed at him, and a sweat broke out on his head as he bit down on his tongue. The room swam before him from the pain.

Fighting through it, John tried to regain his composure and looked up at Marise.

"I assume you're going to tell me why we're here, now," he said, trying to sound calm but his instead his voice came out strangled.

"Of course," Marise replied. "We need you because we need information that only you have."

"And that would be?" John raised an eyebrow at the man, internally fighting down a wave of nausea.

"I'm looking for someone, and you're going to tell me where he's been hiding."

"Well, I have no idea who you're talking about. You have the wrong man," John stated defiantly.

Marise took a step forward menacingly. "No, you _are_ the right man. And you _will_ tell me where he's hiding."

"I don't even know who you're talking about," John said calmly.

"Yes you do, Watson." Another step. "From what I heard, you two were very...close." The way he said it suggested more than just "close."

John glared up at him, a sick feeling twisting in his stomach, and it wasn't from pain. "Who?" he asked, but part of him screamed that he already knew the answer

Marise took a final step forward, now less than a foot away from John's immobile figure.

"Sherlock Holmes," he breathed.

John blinked slowly, the name punching him in the gut. He met Marise's gaze coolly. "Sherlock is dead," he said, the words paining him. "I watched him jump off of that building months ago."

"You and I both know that's not true, though," Marise whispered, leaning down so that they were nose to nose.

"No, I know that it _is_ true. I also know that you are insane and searching for a dead man by abducting an old army doctor and a woman who works in a morgue. Really, not much logic in that, don't you think?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and John knew instantly that he had gone too far.

A corner of Marise's mouth twitched, and his face went blank.

"You will learn in time that it would be best for you to cooperate," he sneered.

Then the gun was in Marise's hand and John watched as it swung down in an arc towards his head. There was a crack, pain, and then the darkness that he had been fighting finally overtook him.

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**AN: **Next chapter should be up next Monday. Enjoy!


	14. Chapter 13

**AN: **Thank you to all who have reviewed: MadameGiry25, Raychaell Dionzeros, and Lucy m. Lots of tea and hugs to you three; reading comments truly makes my day. And of course thanks to all of the lovely people who followed this story!

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Chapter 13: A Disappointment

The phone only had to vibrate once before it was picked up and held to his ear. He said nothing as he listened to the hesitant intake of breath.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry-" the man started, but then he was cut off as Sherlock pressed the _end call_ button and lowered the device.

Bending down slowly, he reached out and picked up the familiar piece of cloth that lay at his feet, discarded carelessly. The fabric slid through his fingers smoothly as he wrapped it around his neck, the same way he always had.

Looking around the flat he saw all he needed to know. A previous exploration led him to find the upended table in the back room, and a cut tie near the pole at the headboard showed that someone had been restrained. The duvet on the bed was wrinkled where the person had struggled in their bonds, giving him an approximate height. But he already knew who it was without the data. The scarf that had previously laid at his feet only confirmed it.

Sherlock exited that flat briskly, the frozen air unable to break through his distraction. He turned to the left and entered the flat next door, knowing it would be vacant. The halls were clear of any struggle and a coat hung on a hook on the wall. His hand raised to graze the familiar fabric as he slowly walked by.

Sherlock pushed the door to the bedroom open. His gaze instantly went to the floor where the discarded gun sat next to the bed, and his stomach lurched with the knowledge of why it was there. He crossed the room to it and picked it up, noticing the safety was off. _Too close_, he thought. It had been too close of a call, much closer than he had anticipated. He had misjudged John's mental state, thinking that he would be able to hold off longer; he was a soldier, after all. But it would seem John was unable to cope any longer..._Because of me. My fault_.

Sherlock whipped out his phone and sent a quick text.

_Give me any information you have_

_SH_

Quickly, he walked out of the flat, not bothering to check any of the other rooms. He had barely stepped foot on the sidewalk when his phone vibrated.

_Agents followed the car until a body was ejected from the moving vehicle as a distraction. He appeared to have been the driver._

_-MH_

Underneath were a set of coordinates, and Sherlock hailed a cab, not having the patience to contact his homeless network to get a ride. He needed to find John before anything happened to him.

* * *

Mycroft sat rubbing his eyes tiredly, a glass of scotch in front of him. The events of the day were running through his mind.

It had started off normal with the arranged assassination of an Australian government official that was secretly at the head of an organized crime syndicate. After that, though, he had gotten a text from one of his agents saying that John Watson had been acting more...peculiar than normal. The previous day, all the man had done was sit on his bed and stare at the wall. The agent that was monitoring John's surveillance had reported the behavior, and Mycroft called his brother sensing that this was a pivotal moment. Sherlock, of course, had not answered, but Mycroft had no doubt that his brother knew the reason as to why he was trying to contact him.

So when Mycroft was called by a frantic agent informing him that doctor had retrieved his old army pistol, he was shocked. Surely if Sherlock cared so much about this simple man, he would have done something, right?

Mycroft had called Sherlock again. When he didn't pick up, he had sent a simple text:

_Hurry._

After that, he dispatched an agent to go to the flat and intervene if the situation became too drastic. Then he sat in tense apprehension in front of the computer screen and watched the doctor raise the barrel of the gun to his head. Mycroft cursed under his breath, eyes glued to the screen.

"Sir," Thomas, the agent in the room had interrupted. "There's someone at his door; a woman, and she has a package."

Mycroft turned his head briefly to the other screen to confirm what Thomas was saying. He let out an inaudible sigh of relief as he instantly recognized Holly Hooper from the morgue.

"Cutting it close, Sherlock," he muttered under his breath, watching as John jumped and dropped the pistol to the ground by the bed. His shoulders relaxed in relief.

"What are they..." Thomas muttered to himself, his tone catching Mycroft's attention. He turned to look at the monitor that showed the front door to John's flat. Where Molly had previously been alone, she had now been joined by another woman and a man, both of their backs facing the camera so that he was unable to get a look at their faces. They were gesturing wildly at her and she hesitantly followed them into the flat next door.

"Those two, John's neighbors. Get me their history and background information," Mycroft ordered, and Thomas scampered from the room.

Turning back towards the monitors, he watched John walk unsteadily down the hallway. He opened the door and kneeled down to open the box, taking out what was obviously Sherlock's scarf.

_Ahh_, Mycroft thought, realizing his brother's intent. _Give the good doctor a sign, something for him to hold out hope so that he doesn't do anything stupid._ He could only imagine the thoughts going through the poor man's mind.

Mycroft was distracted from his thoughts as the woman returned, rushing out of the door to John's side, pulling him up and helping him into her flat. They disappeared from the cameras' sight and Mycroft got an uneasy feeling. Something wasn't right. First Molly and now John.

Just then Thomas returned, pager in hand. "There's a problem, sir," he said distractedly.

"There are no records for either of the the individuals," Mycroft stated without turning around. He had already guessed as much. "Are there any names signed on the documents for that flat?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas said without missing a beat. Most of Mycroft's agents had grown accustomed to his uncanny ability to catch on to things quickly. "The woman signed as 'Rebecca Bantason' and the man as 'Marise Bantason.'"

"Marise Bantason. Bantason? That's a strange name," Mycroft muttered under his breath, musing aloud. Suddenly he whipped his head up and looked at Thomas. "His name, the first name. How is it spelled?" he asked urgently, an idea nagging at the back of his head.

"Er...M-a-r-i-s-e," Thomas spelled out, obviously confused.

"And the last," Mycroft said calmly, though he already knew.

Thomas spelled it out for him and Mycroft stood up instantly. "Send any available agents to that flat immediately."

"Yes, sir," Thomas nodded, all business. He turned to leave, but Mycroft called after him.

"They are not to engage or make the inhabitants aware of their presence unless ordered otherwise."

Thomas nodded again and briskly walked out of the room.

Mycroft had wheeled around and stared at the moniter, waiting for something to happen. He cursed his stupidity, for not knowing sooner. Sherlock had warned him specifically of this threat, and yet the man was able to worm his way right next to his target without Mycroft detecting him. How could he have been so careless?

Behind him, Silene entered and handed him a headpiece which he put on without removing his eyes from the screen.

Part of him knew that he should contact Sherlock, but he knew that if he did, his brother would rush in, throwing caution to the wind. Not only would it risk everyone's lives, by also Sherlock's entire operation. The fact that he was still alive would be revealed before his mission was complete.

No, Mycroft would not contact his younger brother unless absolutely necessary. He told Sherlock that he would protect John, and he would do just that.

But then a car drove up at the same time that the door on the screen was thrown open. Out first came John, and Mycroft tensed as the man, Marise, followed behind. An arm was wrapped around John's neck and a gun held to his head. Then there was Miss Hooper, bound and gagged, in the same position as John but with the woman.

"Permission to engage," came a voice in Mycroft's ear.

"No," Mycroft said firmly, knowing that the hostages' first reactions at a gunshot would be to shoot their own weapons.

The four made it to the car, and it sped off.

"Last chance, sir. Permission to engage."

Possibilities ran through Mycroft's mind, but he knew they were all too risky. "No. Stand down. Send one car to follow the vehicle and be as inconspicuous as possible."

Mycroft threw off the headpiece and exited the room, Silene following on his heels. He had barked at her to keep him updated before locking himself in his office, where he sat now.

It had been four hours since then. About three hours after that he had gotten a call from Silene, reporting that the agents had lost the vehicle after a body had been discarded out of the moving car in front of them. The man was pronounced dead by impact and identified as Charles Martin, an Irish prison escapee that had been missing for the last fifteen months.

It was then that Mycroft decided he could no longer keep his brother out of the knowing. He barely got the apology out before Sherlock had hung up, but that was to be expected. Mycroft let out a sigh and typed up the information he knew Sherlock would be asking for, leaving out what he knew the detective would already know.

Setting the mobile down on the desk, he pressed his fingers into the backs of his eyelids. _One thing_, he thought. _He asked you for one thing, and you failed_. Guilt, an emotion he had become acquainted with quite a bit lately, churned his stomach around, and he hated it. Hated how it made him feel. How many times had he failed his younger brother? How many more times would it be before he lost Sherlock completely? His brother would no longer be able to trust him, not that he did much as it was. But for once he had relied on Mycroft to do something, and he had let Sherlock down.

The phone vibrated and he sent the information before standing up to retrieve a glass and his supply of scotch that was specifically for moments like this. Moments when he wanted his senses and emotions dulled to help put the feelings to rest, even if for a little bit. He couldn't stand being so vulnerable, so _human._

With everything fuzzy, Mycroft's pride wasn't there to stop him from sending one last text.

_Contact me if you need anything._

_-MH_

The reply was almost spontaneous.

_You've already done enough_

_SH_

Mycroft slowly turned the phone off and downed the rest of his glass before filling it back up again.

* * *

**AN:** Sorry if Mycroft is a little OOC. Let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 14

**AN: **Thanks to SD for his/her lovely review.

* * *

Chapter 14

Pain was the first thing he was aware of. His head felt it was cracking open, white hot lightning splitting his skull. Not only that, but his wrist felt like it was being sawed off. There was no feeling in his arms except numbness and the rest of his body felt battered and bruised.

A low groan escaped his lips as he moved around.

"Seems the doctor has decided to join us," came a familiar voice in front of him.

There was a scraping noise and then John found his entire body doused in ice water. The shock was so great that he jerked up, pulling at his bindings. The movement resulted in an entirely knew wave of pain to pulse through his being, the cold already causing him to shake violently.

Eyes open wide, he saw a grim-looking Marise standing in front of him. In his hands was a bucket and John watched as he dropped it to the ground, the clamor resonating in his head.

"I've just been having a little chat here with...Molly, isn't it?" Marise said, arms behind his back.

_Molly_, John thought before whipping his head to look where she had been sitting to his left. She was still there, but she sat slumped in the chair, her head bowed to her chest.

John stared in horror as he realized her coat had been torn off and the blouse underneath was ripped, her shoulders and parts of her chest bared. The worst part, though, was the blood that stained the shreds, gruesomely highlighted by the bad lighting.

"What have you done to her?" he croaked angrily, another shiver wracking his body and causing his teeth to chatter.

"I'm fine John," came a strangled whisper next to him, and John realized that Molly was still conscious.

"I told you already that I want answers. I also warned you that cooperation would be best, but your friend here didn't seem to understand." The man took a menacing step forward. Fully in the light, John could see the bloody marks staining his tan shirt, and a rag hung out of his pocket, also stained. "I'm hoping you have a better understanding now and will be a little bit more helpful. So I'm asking you again: where is Sherlock Holmes?"

John glared at the man that stood in front of him, unsure of how he should respond. Provoking him wouldn't help the situation, and neither would panicking.

"Sherlock Holmes is c-currently buried under his gravestone," he stated calmly, unable to completely talk around the stutter.

Marise's expression hardened, turning feral. "I was afraid you would say that," he growled, and walked forward until he was at Molly's back. He grabbed a fistful of her already-snarled hair and yanked back, revealing her face. John caught his breath, seeing blood, but then he realized it was from where her head had been resting on her chest.

"I gave you a chance, Watson," Marise growled, his grey eyes seeming to glow eerily in the lighting. "Now you will tell me, or I may have to have a little bit more fun with Molly, here." From behind his back he drew out a blade with his free hand. It was probably five inches long and the wood handle was stained rusty-red. _Well-used_, John noted with horror, realizing that it was probably the same blade used to make the lacerations on Molly's chest.

"I don't know anything," John pronounced as clearly as he could, trying not to let the panic creep into his voice as he watched the man press the flat side into Molly's cheek. Her eyes were half closed, but he knew she was still conscious by the way her throat was working.

"Sorry, Molly," Marise murmured, John's words falling on deaf ears. "Your friend here doesn't seem to care much for your well-being. Some doctor he makes."

The man slowly dug one edge of the knife, the sharp side, into Molly's cheek. She tensed and a small whimper came from between her cheeks as blood rolled down the side of her face.

"Leave her alone!" John shouted, struggling in his bonds helplessly. His entire body screamed in disagreement with the movement, but he ignored it.

Slowly, Marise withdrew the weapon, sliding it further down her cheek in the process. "Are you going to be a little more helpful?" he asked, pulling the rag out of his pocket and slowly sliding it up the blade, almost lovingly.

"I'm sorry, I don't know anything. Sherlock is dead, I watched him jump," John said desperately. "Now just, please, leave her alone. She isn't part of this." He knew he was pleading, but he didn't care. His body shook from cold and pain, and all he wanted was to get Molly and him out of there alive.

Marise whipped around to give him a hard glare. "You're wearing on my patience, Watson. Stop playing dumb. You and I both know that Sherlock Holmes is still alive, and there is no way his little pet wouldn't know where he is."

The words ran through John's mind:_ Sherlock Holmes is still alive_. He wanted to believe it, so much that it cause an ache in his stomach so strong it was as if it had its own gravity, and all John want to do was curl in on himself. But, no...

_Blood, everywhere. No pulse in his wrist. Lifeless, blue-grey eyes staring up into the sky emptily, lacking their usual life and brilliance. His body being carried away on a gurney, the last glimps he would ever get of his best friend._

The ache grew with every memory to an almost unbearable throb. No, it was impossible for the detective to be alive, John knew, and even hoping otherwise hurt so much that he preferred the physical torment over the emotional agony of loss.

"You have another chance, Watson," Marise said, interrupting John's internal turmoil and jolting him back into reality. "A woman's face could also do with a little symmetry, I think," he threatened, repositioning himself on the other side of Molly, again pressing the blade flat into her cheek, this time on the opposite side.

"I don't know anything. There is nothing _to_ know," John said through gritted teeth.

"Strike two," Marise breathed, and then he dug the blade into Molly's other cheek, this time more violently. She cried out, eyes jerking open, and blood instantly started to roll down from the gash.

"Stop! I don't know anything. If I did I would tell you, believe me!" John shouted, straining against his bindings.

Marise removed the blade and squinted at John suspiciously over Molly's head. Releasing his fistful of her hair, Molly's head dropped back down against her chest, and John heard a barely perceptible sniffle.

"You really don't, do you?" Marise murmured, slowly approaching John.

"No," John gasped, wanting to draw the man away from the motionless body slouched in the chair.

Marise gave a sigh and walked to John's side. "Well, unfortunately that doesn't mean _she_ doesn't know anything. And she's really proven to be a tough one, Molly has." Marise drew out the rag and held up the blade, wiping it clean again. "I have no doubt I could make her crack eventually, but why would I do that when I have such a fresh piece of meat sitting right here?"

John's gut clenched but he continued to just stare straight ahead as he felt the tip of the knife graze the side of his neck. Then, suddenly his left arm was exposed, the blade gliding through the fabric of his jumper all the way down to the elbow. Goose flesh developed across his body at the frigid air and another violent shiver wracked his body.

"I wonder if she's conscious enough to save you," Marise murmured, and then John felt a white hot pain on his bicep, the cold flesh only magnifying the sting. He strained against the restraints, his muscles tensing, as the cut became deeper and slower the farther down it got. Clenching his jaw, John tried to focus on the pain in his wrist or in his head, anything but the agony emanating from his limb.

John somehow managed not to cry out as Marise jerked the blade out of his arm.

"You have a lot more willpower than the other one," Marise whispered in his ear from behind. "She was crying out within _seconds._ Too bad you were too out of it to do anything about it. Perhaps she's just returning the favor."

John closed his eyes and braced himself as he felt Marise's presence by his head disappear.

His hands fisted tightly as the blade slid into his skin again and then curved back and forth all the way down easily cutting through nerves, tissue and muscle.

John waited for the relief of the blade's removal, but it didn't come.

Instead, Marise jerked the blade in deeper, and this time John couldn't stop the strangled cry that was torn from his lips as the tip scraped bone.

"Maybe you'll be willing to talk now," Marise hissed, once again at John's ear. John didn't reply, panting as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "But then again, your little detective ran off without you, so why _would_ he tell you anything? He obviously doesn't care much about you, or he would have showed up by now."

"Stop," John whispered through the pain, the words running through his mind. _Obviously doesn't care.._. Hadn't he said the same thing at one point?

But no, he had never truly meant it. He was just angry at the brilliant detective for being so stupid, for leaving him behind to weather the storm that had started in his absence. For forcing him to return to a normal, boring life with the memory of brilliance and adventure a distant shade in the past.

Now, though, John felt the darkness coming, and a bittersweet happiness filled him. If he was lucky they would be reunited again soon, and that was the hope that he clung on to.

"No," John murmured, the dark fighting to win him over. "No, Sherlock will always come for me."

And from the shadows came a deep, familiar voice.

"For once, John, you're right."

* * *

**AN:** Expect the next chapter to be up next Tuesday


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Confrontation

Silence filled the room following the uttered words. John's drooping eyelids jerked open through the pain. The disbelief and surprise circled the atmosphere, growing as the man stepped out of the shadows and into the light.

John stared in wonder at the man who barely looked any different than _before_. The hair was a little longer perhaps, but other than that he seemed unchanged. The long coat adorned his frame and around his neck was the scarf that was so familiar. His arms were clasped behind his back as he surveyed the room casually.

"Sh-Sherlock," John choked, his chest aching. His mind screamed that it was impossible, but his heart was bursting with joy.

"Be quiet for a moment, John," Sherlock murmured, and the raspy baritone caused John to catch his breath.

John opened his mouth to ask_ how, how are you here_, but thought better of it when he noticed the dead man's expression.

It was cool and calculating, a thinly veiled fury burning bright in his eyes. "I suggest you back away from Doctor Watson," the man murmured, his tone suggesting no argument. He stared over John's shoulder where he felt Marise's presence lingering near the hilt of the blade that was still lodged in his arm.

"I don't believe you're in any position to make requests, Holmes," Marise hissed, regaining his composure.

"Maybe not, but I wouldn't recommend touching that gun in your back, right pocket," Sherlock said, and from behind him he pulled out a gun of his own.

John both heard and felt Marise moving behind him, more towards his left side. "Oh, I was never planning on it," Marise shot back, unfazed by the weapon pointing at him. "It's just there as insurance. It would be a pity to have to end you so quickly, which is why I hesitate to use it."

John shivered even more, the words sending fear through him. If this was real, if Sherlock Holmes was in fact standing in front of him, then the absolute worst outcome would be to have him taken away again. John would rather die than watch the detective's death over.

"Then it's a good thing that you won't get the chance," Sherlock replied, the gun in his hand unwavering.

_Why aren't you shooting?_ John thought desperately, trying to convey his thoughts to the prone detective. Either he didn't notice, or (more likely, seeing as Sherlock noticed everything) he was choosing to ignore him.

"I fully intend to get the chance, actually. You see, Holmes, you took from me the only thing I ever cared about. That is why I took the one thing you cared about the most; a fair trade, don't you think?"

John battled with the haze threatening to take over. Pain and exhaustion were becoming overwhelming, but John fought it off afraid that if he allowed himself to be taken, he would wake up again and Sherlock would be gone. Even through the dark, though, John heard the gun being cocked, and his drooping eyelids shot open once more.

"I'm not a fair man, though, so there is hardly any point to attempting equality," Sherlock stated calmly, his tone contradicting with the storm brewing in his eyes. "And it would benefit you to remember that _I_ am the one holding the gun."

From next to John there was a soft laugh that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "You won't shoot unless you absolutely have to though. Isn't that right, Holmes?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in mock curiosity. "What would ever give you that idea, Moran?"

_Moran?_ John though, his muddled mind struggling to keep up. The man's name was Marise; did his cloudy mind just hear incorrectly? Because John found it hard to believe that Sherlock had gotten anything wrong.

"I suppose you figured out the little hint I left for you then. I was wondering if you were as clever as everybody seemed to think. Jim certainly thought so," Moran said, his words twisting with bitterness at the end.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, ignoring the last comment. "'Marise Bantason' is an anagram of 'Sebastian Moran'. Not really very clever, if you ask me. The name could have done with some enhancement, but I suppose one cannot always choose the rearranged name of their enemy."

"Do you know _why_ I left you the clue though?" the man, Moran, asked, his tone irritated.

"Of course. You wanted to lure me in," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" Marise growled over John's shoulder.

"I would venture to say I know most everything, yes."

"Then how did I find the doctor if your brother was working so hard to keep him hidden?"

Sherlock got that look, the one that was so achingly familiar, that warned he was about to start one of his brilliant deductions. John almost laughed

"You obviously found John when the newspaper featured an article about him trying to save his former neighbor's life after he suffered a fatal seizure caused by his epilepsy. You and the woman I saw upstairs went under cover as siblings and waited for any sign of my presence or return, assuming that John would know of my survival and I would be back to check in on him. You took the title 'Marise Bantason' to clue me in on your presence, hoping I would figure out it was an anagram, which really isn't quite that difficult, but then again you did want to catch my attention. Now what you didn't plan on was John having no knowledge that I was still alive and so therefore I would not make contact with him, which probably made your wait undercover rather dull. But you waited to make a move until yesterday afternoon because something triggered your action: Molly Hooper, an old colleague of Sherlock Holmes, stops by John Watson's flat with a package and doesn't bother to stay for conversation. Now how odd is that? You decided that for better or for worse it was time act, so you convinced Molly to come into your flat where you questioned her and then tied her up in the back room before you got your chance to bring John in. Of course you retrieved the object in the package at the same time you ushered John into your flat, realizing it was my old scarf and connecting the dots back to me. When your attempts to obtain information in a friendly manner failed- of course, because John knew nothing- you left with both Molly and him, arriving here where you continued to torture them in an attempt to obtain information about my activities and whereabouts. And now here we stand, me with the upper hand and you questioning my intelligence, most likely in order to stall until one of your idiots arrives. Now can we move this along?"

The room was silent following the speech, nobody having any words to follow it.

_Brilliant prat_, John thought, grinning. He never thought he would admit to missing the man's flawless deductions, spoken at such a rapid rate that it was difficult to keep up even when you were completely conscious.

"Well," Marise spoke, his voice filled with loathing. "I can see why Jim was so...interested by you. You sure are a quick one." Sherlock nodded as if accepting a compliment in a normal conversation. "But the question is...how quick are you?"

John's entire body jerked in agony and a cry escaped his lips as the dagger was ripped out of his arm. He felt the blood instantly start coursing out of the open wound and he cursed as his head began to spin.

John realized the blood loss wasn't his biggest problem, though, as the blade was pressed into his neck, drawing blood. Sherlock's expression darkened and his outstretched arm stiffened.

A low chuckle emanated from behind John. "Too bad you missed your chance, Holmes. Now who has the upper hand?"

Sherlock took a small step forward and John felt the blade press deeper into his skin. "And what if I was to shoot you right now? Put a bullet through your brain?"

"Then I guess you would be risking your pet's life, and of course you wouldn't be able to escape without meeting my people on the way out. That would be rather messy, what with two- oh pardon me, _nearly_ two unconscious bodies to move."

"I believe I've achieved more difficult tasks," Sherlock stated coldly.

Through the dizziness, John thought he saw something in the shadows move. At first he thought it was just his hazy mind making things up, but slowly the shape became more solid.

"Too bad you won't achieve this one," Moran said, and John could hear the victory in his voice as the words and slowly developing shadow clicked together in his mind.

"Sherlock watch out!" someone cried, and John just had time to realize that they belonged to Molly, not him, before Rebecca leapt out of the shadows towards Sherlock.

* * *

**AN: **Sorry guys my schedule is going to be messed up. The next chapter will possibly be up next Friday.


	17. Chapter 16

**AN**: I am so sorry about the late update. Exam schedules have messed up everything.

* * *

Chapter 16: Escape

Everything happened in a flurry of movement. Rebecca launched herself and Sherlock swirled around in time to dodge her blow. Then Marise was there too, tackling Sherlock to the ground. There was a clatter that could only be the gun falling to the floor. Molly cried out again as John struggled in his restraints, pushing away the pain that demanded his attention.

The bonds around his wrists were too tight, but his feet weren't tied up. Gathering all his will-power, John leaned forward until his own legs were under him. He stood shakily at first, the position causing a new wave of pain to ripple through his body. Beside him, he saw Molly doing the same, a bit more successfully.

By this time, the struggle had turned into an all-out brawl and it was difficult for John to make out who was who among the mass of writhing bodies. Somewhere underneath was Sherlock, returned from the grave. The only thing John could think about was saving the bloody git so that he could kill him himself.

Without a second thought, John turned as best as he could and launched himself backwards, chair first, into the fray.

John knew he blacked out for a moment, the impact aggravating his injuries to the point where it was unbearable. But then there was movement underneath him, someone grunting and struggling, and he was aware of his surroundings once more.

John looked up, blinking blood out of his eyes. About a meter away from him, two figures struggled on the ground, their writhing bodies becoming one mass of tangled limbs.

Then there was a figure moving towards him, and he made out Molly's face as she fell to the floor next to where he lay.

Up close she looked worse than he initially thought. Her shirt was shredded and soaked with blood, the cuts on her face still oozing. But the look on her face was determined.

"Moran dropped his knife. I'm going to cut you loose but you need to hold her down," Molly said quickly, disappearing behind him. Rebecca's struggling became more furious, and John grunted as her elbow met his stomach.

Then his arms were free and immediate relief filled him as his injured wrist was released and blood was able to flow back into his limbs.

The relief was short-lived though as he realized his left arm was completely useless. The wound was still open and bleeding and his broken wrist made his hand unusable. But he couldn't worry about that right now. All he could think about was Sherlock, who was currently rolling around in a death grip with a man who wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Sherlock, who had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. There was no way John was going to lose him again.

"John!" Molly warned, demanding his attention.

Just then Rebecca cried out and threw John off of her with more force than he thought possible. And then he was on his back, her face inches from his. She was bearing her teeth in a way that gave her a feral look.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed, pulling back her arm.

John tensed and waited for the blow, knowing he was too weak to hinder her. Just as her fisted hand arced towards his already-bloodied face, though, Molly was there, slamming her entire body into the woman and throwing her off-balance. They toppled over together, falling onto the floor where Molly got the upper hand.

"Help him!" Molly cried at John, and he didn't hesitate to obey. A voice at the back of his mind was protesting, screaming that there was no way Molly would be able to overpower Rebecca for long. But John ignored it, his thoughts centering around getting Sherlock out alive.

Averting his attention towards the two men, John saw that they were completely absorbed in one another, seemingly unaware of what was around them. Sherlock lay pinned under the other man. His face was impassive, but Moran's was red with anguish. John couldn't make out anything that was being said, but by the way Moran was spewing at the detective it was obvious it was mostly insults and threats.

As John looked around for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon, a wave of dizziness crashed over him. He had lost too much blood already and his head pounded from the blow. As his vision cleared, John's eyes focused on an object lying on the ground a couple meters away from him. The impossibility filled John, and he would have laughed at his luck if the situation allowed the time for it. Instead, he crawled forward, cradling his left arm to his chest. Lurching forward the last few centimeters, John's fingers grasped at the object until he had it fully in his possession.

It wasn't his pistol, but the model was similar enough. Plus it helped that he had been trained in using many different weapons.

With the safety already flipped off, John spun around onto his back, taking aim at the man who had kidnapped and tortured him and Molly. Moran's face was inches from Sherlock's, and John squinted trying to blink out some blood that had trickled into his eye again. He couldn't miss. Taking a deep breath John steadied himself and took aim, summoning the John Watson from his army days.

Moran looked up right as he squeezed the trigger, the loud noise freezing all movement in the room. John watched the surprised expression that crossed the man's face as the bullet entered his head. He watched as the life instantly left his eyes and the body slumped forward, no longer inhabited.

Sherlock pushed the carcass off of him and was instantly on his feet, pulling out another gun from the back of his waistband and aiming it.

"You killed him!" Rebecca snarled at John, ignoring the gun that was aimed at her.

John removed his eyes from Sherlock reluctantly and sat up to look at the furious woman who was glaring at him.

"Yeah, well, he would have killed me," John replied wearily.

"Maybe I should do his job for him!" And suddenly she let out a cry and launched herself off of Molly and towards John.

She didn't get very far, though, as another gunshot rang out. Her body stopped midair and fell to the ground. John turned to look at Sherlock who had already lowered the gun and rushed towards Molly's prone body.

"Molly?" Sherlock murmured to her.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good," she replied as Sherlock's hand gently guided her into a sitting position.

"We have to go. Now," Sherlock ordered, not even throwing a glance towards John as he stood up.

John followed suit more hesitantly, his eyes never leaving the former detective. Why wasn't he addressing him? Why wouldn't Sherlock even look at him? The only time he had even acknowledged his presence this entire time was when he first made himself known. It had been only three minutes ago, but it seemed so much longer.

"Sherlock," John croaked, stumbling forward towards the tense man.

"Please. Not now John," Sherlock said emotionlessly, still not looking at him. Instead he stooped down and helped up Molly, who was looking back and forth worriedly between the two men.

John stopped and looked away, swallowing. All the pain he had gone through the past months, all the depression and emotional turmoil he had been plagued with since the death of his best friend- it was all pointless. If his eyes were telling him the truth (which he wasn't entirely sure they were) then Sherlock Holmes was still alive. And now that they were finally reunited, the bloody sod wouldn't even look at him.

Second-guessing thoughts swam through his mind and Moran's words returned.

_"Your little detective ran off without you."_

_"He obviously doesn't care much about you."_

John felt numb, the physical pain suddenly like background noise, as if he was wrapped in cotton balls. Maybe everything that Moran said, that John secretly feared, was true. Maybe Sherlock /wanted/ to leave him behind, and he went through the trouble of faking his own suicide just to get away. Maybe John had been deluded thinking that Sherlock had actually cared, when in reality he had been living with a self-proclaimed sociopath.

Of course none of it made sense, but John was exhausted and his emotions were all over the place. He couldn't help the thoughts that came unbidden to him.

"Let's go. Be ready to shoot if necessary," Sherlock said, breaking through John's thoughts.

With effort, John got his feet to move, one in front of the other, and followed the two figures through the darkness of the wine cellar. He held his left arm to his chest in an attempt not to jostle it too much. In his right hand, he held tight to the handle of the gun.

They made it to the stairs and Sherlock took the lead. John watched in silent apprehension as the man slowly opened the door, first aiming the gun to the right where John remembered the end of the hall to be. Then, slowly, Sherlock eased his way out the door, turning towards the left.

John ran up the steps past Molly as the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the room. Sherlock cursed, firing back twice and then disappearing from the doorway.

John followed hurriedly, once again finding himself having to watch the sod's back as he recklessly ran into probable danger._ Some things never change_, he thought grimly.

At the end of the hall the other man that had tied them up lay still on the floor. Approaching him, John saw two bullet wounds, one to the chest and the other to the head. The man's weapon lay useless next to his body.

Sherlock came back into the main room from the suspected kitchen and approached the door, gun still drawn. In the other hand was a phone, his fingers flying across the keys quickly. Slipping it back into his pocket, Sherlock looked out the window.

"We need to make a run for the forest. Once there we have to get back to the main road. There will be a car waiting there for us."

John said nothing as another wave of dizziness overcame him. He tilted a little to the side, but was able to catch his balance before he fell. _Just a little farther_, he told himself._ Then it will all be over._

"Right," Molly spoke up. "Then let's go."

Sherlock shot her an unreadable look, then swiftly opened the door. He walked out onto the porch and John let Molly go ahead of him, mostly because he didn't want either of them to notice how weak he was becoming. He had lost a lot of blood and was probably still losing it. The dizziness had returned with a vengeance and he found it difficult to stay up on his feet.

"Now," Sherlock commanded, and he and Molly both broke out in a run towards the tree line. Caught in surprise, John followed a little slower, fighting through the pain.

That was when John realized for the first time that he didn't have his cane. If he didn't feel so bloody terrible, he might have laughed. His leg wasn't even bothering him, save for the soreness that was result of his tumble down the stairs.

Ahead of him, Molly and Sherlock had already disappeared in the edges of the foliage, and suddenly John knew he wouldn't make it. He could already feel his body shutting down, and the darkness was back like a storm, right there on the edge of his mind.

_/At least they got away,_ was the last thing John thought before he tumbled to the ground and was swallowed by the blackness completely.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 17: Never Again

Silence and darkness mingled, creating a cocoon of solitude. For the longest time, what seemed like years, there was nothing. Blanketed in comfort there were no worries.

The smell was the first thing he was aware of. Sterile. _Hospital_, he thought, but as he cracked his eyes open he shot down that idea. It was too dark, no white as far as he could tell, and he was lying on what seemed to be a bed.

His head chose that moment to start pounding, and John curled in on himself, groaning.

"John! You're awake!" cried a familiar voice near his head, startling him. Looking up, he met worried, brown eyes. And then his sight traveled to the white bandages that covered most of both of her cheeks.

"Molly...you're face..." John whispered.

"Oh, what, these small things? They're nothing to worry about," she said with a small laugh before continuing. "No, your injuries were much worse. Almost had to bandage up your entire left arm."

Moving the arm around, John realized that Molly was right. There was a brace around his wrist and the bandage on his upper arm reached all the way to his elbow.

"Your pain medication is probably going to start wearing off soon. We gave you a shot once we arrived," Molly explained. "Your arm needed to be stitched up. The wound was pretty bad..."

John heard the hesitation in Molly's voice and looked up at her. "What is it Molly?" he said flatly.

"Well...the blade cut through a lot of muscle. It will heal in time of course, but it will take months at least. Even then the movement in your left arm will probably be restricted..." she tottered off, not wanting to continue.

John took a breath and contemplated the information. It could be worse, he supposed. He could have lost his arm completely. Or died. But instead he just had an arm to match his defective leg.

"Molly, what happened?" John asked, changing the subject.

"After you fainted?"

"Well yes, but before that, too. How did you get out of the bindings? And where did you get the knife you used to cut me free?"

"Well..." Molly started. "The man who tied my hands behind my back didn't do a very good job. They were fairly loose and I was able to make them even looser while Mari- er, Moran was...distracted with you." Molly bit her lip hesitantly. John nodded encouragingly for her to go on.

"After you jumped on Rebecca I saw the knife lying on the floor and realized Moran must have dropped it when he launched himself across the room. And, well, you know the rest of that."

"How did I get here, then? You lot ran off and then...well I fainted."

"Oh we didn't get far," Molly reassured. "Sherlock realized right away that you had fallen behind. He pointed me in the direction that the road was and told me not to wait for him and run. So I did. I reached the road and within two minutes he joined me, with you in his arms. We didn't get far before Mycroft's men found us and took us here. You've been out of it for almost three hours," she finished.

But John hadn't heard, or comprehended, half of what Molly had said. Instead his mind was stuck on one word._ Sherlock_.

He half-believed that his mind had conjured up Sherlock's return. That it was all just a hallucination that his subconscious had provided in the last moments when he was sure he was nearing death.

But it was real?

At least that's what it sounded like Molly was saying...

"So...Sherlock's..." John started, wanting to confirm it but unable to get the words out.

Molly understood. "Yes, Sherlock's alive," she said softly.

"How?" John asked, clearing his throat quietly.

"I'm so sorry John. I wish I could have told you but he wouldn't let me. He said it was for your own safety," Molly rambled.

"Wha- wait." John interrupted. "How come you knew but I didn't?"

"Well, you see, I had to, well, help him fake his death," Molly stuttered, growing anxious at John's increasing anger. "Someone had to 'examine the body' and 'pronounce him dead.' And, well, that someone was me.'" She tried to smile reassuringly, but it fell off her lips when John didn't reciprocate the gesture.

"And you were the one who stole the scarf from my flat and then delivered it months later?"

"Not exactly...Sherlock came to me a couple months ago with the scarf. He never told me how he got it..."

"He snuck into my flat and stole it then," John stated, connecting that to the cup of tea that had been waiting for him on the counter when he had returned that night.

Molly nodded. "He told me to hold on to the scarf and wait for his instruction. He said...he said that it was dire that I delivered it to you as soon as he contacted me. It was never explained why, but it wasn't hard to guess..." Molly stopped, her eyes filling with tears, and John connected the dots too.

It was to stop his suicide. How Sherlock knew exactly when to send it was a mystery, but somehow he had achieved it. He always seemed to do the impossible.

"Oh, John," Molly sighed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything, couldn't say anything. I wanted to, I truly did. I hated seeing you suffer like that, knowing I could end it."

"Not your fault," John mumbled through her rambling.

And then John looked up confused, something she had said earlier coming back to him. "I still don't understand. Why did he do it? And what did you mean he couldn't tell me because he had to protect me? It seemed like it had the opposite effect."

"This was never supposed to happen," Molly hurriedly assured him, obviously referring to what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

"No, I don't mean the abduction or torture," John explained emotionlessly. "I mean the six months I spent thinking he was dead."

The room was quiet, Molly not knowing what to say. Her mouth opened a couple of times before closing again, searching for the words but not coming up with anything.

"No, I'd rather go through that over and over again than to spend another six months thinking my best friend is dead. So why did he do it? Did he not care enough about me to clue me in?"

"Of course not!" Molly interrupted. "He did it because he _does_ care about you, John. He did it to protect you."

"Yes, you keep saying that but it doesn't explain anything," John said in frustration. The stress wasn't helping to tone down the throbbing in his head but at this point he couldn't control it. He wanted answers and he wasn't getting any.

"I would explain, but I think it's best if you hear it from him," Molly said, her voice unsure.

"Where is the arse anyways?" John grumbled, reaching his right arm up to rub the other which was becoming increasingly sore.

A voice from the other end of the room spoke up, making both him and Molly jump in surprise. "I'm here," Sherlock said calmly, holding the door that he had just come through open.

"If you could excuse us Molly, John and I need to talk."

"Oh, uh, yeah of course," Molly murmured, standing up stiffly, looking back and forth between the two of them anxiously before walking towards the door.

John could tell by the way she walked that she was in pain, and he instantly felt guilty. He had completely forgotten about her own injuries and had neglected to inquire as to how she was faring.

But the guilt disappeared with the clicking of the door bolt sliding home, and his thoughts were focused completely on the man that slowly made his way towards the bed where John was lying, never looking directly at him.

John watched as, slowly, Sherlock lowered himself into the chair next to him and took a deep breath.

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**AN: **Sorry it's a little short and not very well written!


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: **Oh my god guys, I am soo sorry. I didn't realize until now that one of the chapters didn't upload. No wonder some of you were confused! Again, apologies...

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Chapter 18: Never Again

Up close, John could see the difference between his Sherlock and the stranger sitting in front of him. The eyes, once so lively and bright, were now dulled and dark. Stubble was developing on his jaw, something that had rarely ever happened in the past. Not only that, but the detectives already pronounced cheekbones strained as if trying to cut through the skin. John remembered all of the times he had urged Sherlock to eat, always telling him that he would become skin and bones if he didn't. Never did John actually believe that it would ever become reality. He always comforted himself with the knowledge that Sherlock knew his limits, that no matter what he would always consume enough food to sustain himself- the detective wouldn't survive just lying around, after all. But this? It looked as if Sherlock had been living off of the bare minimum, only what he needed to survive and function. Thinking about it, John wasn't all that surprised. He didn't expect anything more.

Then the reality of the situation hit John and his mind was filled with questions. So many buzzed through his head, but his tongue was weighed down in confusion and uncertainty. Which did he ask first? Which was the most important?

Finally, he was able choke out one syllable. "Why?"

He watched as Sherlock's expression twitched the slightest before settling in the emotionless mask once more.

"I had to, John-"

"Yes," John said breathlessly, sitting up on the bed rapidly. "I keep getting told that. But what does that mean?"

"John, I-"

"Of course you had a bloody choice, Sherlock!" John yelled, all of the unvented anger boiling out. "And you chose to jump off of that bloody building and leave me behind! Don't you realize-" John stopped and looked up at the ceiling, trying to control himself before he punched the git.

Huffing, he looked back at Sherlock expecting to once more meet the man's impassive gaze. Instead he was shocked to see Sherlock's expression full of emotion, his eyes filled with what seemed to be...regret?

And then his face was blank once more. "John," he started, and John could see the way he braced himself for the words he was about to speak. "If I hadn't jumped you would have been killed. You along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade- courtesy of Moriarty's network."

John stared at him, unable to comprehend the words being spoken. "Wait...but...Moriarty was dead. They found his body," John said, his words coming out strained.

"Moriarty presented me with an ultimatum. Either I jumped off of the building, theoretically committing suicide and completing the smearing of my name, or I let you three die."

Sherlock stopped, and John was grateful for that. His confused mind was trying to process the already spoken words around his pounding headache. Any more would have possibly caused his brain to stop working completely.

"Wait, so you...killed yourself to save us?" John asked incredulously, the words still unbelievable.

"Well, obviously not if I'm still alive," Sherlock responded, a bit of his old condescending tone returning. Then he seemed to realize it and he sat back in the chair, relaxing. "I surmised that Moriarty would try to pull a stunt like that, so I was able to organize an alternate option without him being aware."

And then Sherlock explained everything. How he thought he had figured out the computer code and arranged for John to get called back to the flat so that he would not interrupt or be put in any sort of danger. He explained how he was able to fake his death with the aid of his homeless network and, of course, Molly Hooper.

"I knew that I could not return right away. Moriarty may have been dead but I had no doubt that his men were given explicit orders to make sure the job was completed in his absence. If I were to return prematurely I had no doubt that you three would once more become targets."

"So what have you been doing all this time?" John asked, finally finding his voice.

Sherlock hesitated before answering. "I have been systematically disposing of the threats."

"And what does that mean?" As soon as the words words were out of his mouth he realized exactly what Sherlock was saying. "Are you telling me you've been going around killing people for the last six months?" John asked incredulously.

"It is the only option I have if I am ever to return home," Sherlock said with the utmost confidence.

John contemplated Sherlock's words. The last six months he had believed his friend to be dead, to have selfishly committed suicide with little thought of John. Instead it was the opposite. He had _faked_ his death to _protect _John and had spent the last six months assuring his safety. And the entire time he himself had just been wasting away, being completely useless.

John crossed his legs and dropped his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. He held back the tears, tired of feeling weak, but was unable to stop the grief from weighing on him.

"I thought you were dead, Sherlock," John said dully, his voice muffled by his hands.

"I'm really am sorry, John," Sherlock murmured. "But I was not going to allow you to be killed or put in danger if I could stop it."

The room was silent for a while, both men struggling with their own battles. John, trying to come to terms with everything, and Sherlock unable to forget the long ago words John had spoken.

"I understand why you would start to believe me to be a fake." Sherlock said quietly, his voice coming out emotionless.

John looked up in consternation. "What?"

"I was, of course, the one who planted the idea in your head in the first place. I had just...expected more, I suppose. I had thought that, of all people, it would be you that never lost faith in me. In fact I relied on it."

"Why are you saying this?" John asked confused. He had never heard Sherlock speak so openly about his feelings. In fact he was constantly fueling the claim that he had none.

"I heard what you said to Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly. When John just stared at him in confusion, he elaborated. "A few weeks after my...fall I briefly returned to assure you were alright. I was sitting on a bench nearby when Lestrade stopped to question you. I heard everything you said, and I understand why you would think-"

"No, wait," John interrupted hurriedly, all of the horrible things he had said coming back to him. "I didn't mean what I said. I was just so..._angry _at you for leaving me behind. The words just came out," he said, the need to explain overcoming him.

"Ah, so you never lost faith in me," Sherlock stated, the relief clear in his voice as he relaxed in the chair.

"Well, I can't say I had a lot of faith while Moran was carving me up," John said, smiling grimly.

"That never should have happened," Sherlock growled, his expression going dark. "I should have protected you better-"

"There was nothing you could have done," John tried to reassure him.

"I should have been more careful," Sherlock said, the anger in his voice evident.

Before John had a chance to question what he meant, though, the door to the room opened and in walked Mycroft.

"Sherlock. John," he greeted, nodding towards each of them. "It's nice to see you in your usual apparel," Mycroft said, directing his words to the detective that sat stiffly in the chair.

"I'm sorry to interrupt things, but you are aware of the timetable, Sherlock."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock sniffed, waving his hand towards the door. "If you don't mind, Mycroft," Sherlock said, clearly dismissing him.

"Of course," Mycroft muttered, without the usual protests, John noticed. He was more preoccupied with what Mycroft had said to question it, though.

"What does he mean, the 'timetable'," John asked Sherlock as soon as his brother exited the room.

"We came across the information that one of Moriarty's more important agents would be leaving for Austrailia later today. It is of importance that we intercept him and we have limited time to do so."

Sherlock stood up and donned the coat that John hadn't even noticed him remove. "I will arrange your protection with Mycroft, though I wouldn't rely too heavily upon that," Sherlock said, already heading towards the door, away from a stunned John.

John shot off the bed, realizing what was happening, but before he could protest a wave of dizziness overcame him. He would have fallen had Sherlock not crossed the room quickly and caught him before easing him back onto the bed.

"Be more careful, John," Sherlock chided. "You have sustained multiple traumas, including blood loss and a concussion. Do try to take care of yourself." And then Sherlock turned around and began walking away again.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John cried out, standing up again, this time more slowly. Sherlock turned around and quirked an eyebrow at him impatiently.

"So you're just going to walk out, then?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes, that was the plan-"

"No," John interrupted, pointing the index finger of his good hand at the detective. "No, you can't just leave me behind like that. Not again."

"John-"

"No. Last time- I thought you were dead! I thought I was never going to see you again- that you were gone. Now that you're back do you really think I'm going to let you off and pop to go kill someone? Bloody hell, you haven't even told me when I'd see you again!"

"Listen," Sherlock started, his face almost pained.

"No you listen," John interrupted in frustration. "You will not leave me behind again, understand?"

For a second John thought that Sherlock was going to argue, his expression showing his reaction to being ordered around. But then he took a breath and seemed to gather himself before slowly returning to John's side.

"Okay," he said.

"What?" John asked, shocked. He had thought that it would be more difficult to convince the stubborn man.

"I said okay. I won't leave you behind anymore, if that's what you want."

"Well, yes of course," John replied hurriedly.

"We would always be on the run, living off of whatever we can find and breaking into old dilapidated buildings for shelter."

"Of course. Whatever it takes," John said, standing up to his full height and looking the taller man in the eye.

"John, our main purpose is to _kill_ people," Sherlock growled, his gaze intense.

"Yes, well, they're not very nice people, are they," John stated matter-of-factly.

"John..." Sherlock hesitated. "You would have to die."

For a second John thought he had heard incorrectly, but when the detective just continued to stare at him, John realized he hadn't. "What?" he asked in confusion, the words sending a shiver down his spine.

"You can't just disappear. The authorities would be out searching for you, which would catch the attention of any of the remaining assassins in Moriarty's web. I'm sure they're keeping tabs on you to be sure. You don't want that kind of attention, so you would have to die to the public."

John opened his mouth to comment that that would be fine, but then he stopped and thought about it. What about Sarah and Mike? But most of all Harry? How would his sister react?

"Would Harry be safe?" John asked slowly.

"I'm sure Mycroft could arrange protection," Sherlock answered warily.

"Then yes," John replied without hesitating. "I want to go with you, to help."

Sherlock stared at John without answering, his expression making it clear he was contemplating. Finally, just as John was starting to shuffle his feet in discomfort, Sherlock spoke. "Alright. But you're not coming with me on this mission. No-," Sherlock held up his hand, cutting off John's protests. "You are not in physical condition to go gallivanting about. No, I will complete what needs to be done and then come straight back here."

John worked his jaw, contemplating the man's words. Of course he knew Sherlock was right- he wouldn't be much use without one of his arms. But the thought of just sitting while Sherlock was off risking his life was enough to make John's stomach churn in disapproval.

"You promise you will come back?" John asked finally.

"Yes, of course. I will never leave you behind again." His expression was sincere as he said the words, obviously meaning them.

John nodded gratefully. "Then be careful. Don't keep me waiting, you know how impatient I am."

Sherlock laughed a throaty chuckle causing a pang in John's stomach at the familiarity.

"I missed you, Sherlock," John murmured, the words out of him before he could stop them.

Sherlock's laugh was cut off and he was serious once more. "I missed you too, more than I care to admit," Sherlock replied softly.

Then he whisked away and was to the door almost too quickly for John's eyes to follow. "See you in a bit," he promised, before disappearing out of the door.

_You bettered, you bloody sot, _John thought before slowly lowering himself to the bed, his wariness finally catching up to him. Laying his head to the pillow, he fell asleep in only a matter of moments.

And for once he had no nightmares.


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: **I'm planning on having a couple ficlets up sometime soon, so this will not be the end! Thank you for reading.

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Epilogue

Death of a Hero

Dr. John Watson, former British army medic, was announced dead early Tuesday morning. Police report that he and an acquaintance, whose name has not been disclosed, were kidnapped Monday afternoon from his home in the outside suburbs of London. They were taken to a cabin where they were both tortured. Dr. Watson was pronounced dead at the scene when authorities arrived.

The identities of the individuals involved have not yet been released, though an unnamed government official has claimed that there is reasonable suspicion that James Moriarty was somehow involved. The motive is unknown.

Moriarty is a name commonly associated with Dr. Watson's former flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, and his controversial downfall. Holmes and Moriarty were found dead little over six months ago, both from apparent suicide.

The trial of James Moriarty was widely broadcasted due to the severity of the crimes committed. He was acquitted of all charges, including those of organizing an underground crime syndicate.

New information was released after Holmes' downfall claiming that Moriarty never existed. Instead, he was a criminal mastermind created by Holmes and portrayed by the actor, Richard Brook. This has been heatedly debated since the death of Holmes.

The new information about Dr. Watson's kidnapping suggests that Moriarty was, in fact, a real person, though it cannot be confirmed. With the death of Dr. Watson, the truth will most likely not be revealed, ending Sherlock Holmes' saga of misadventures.

Dr. Watson was discharged from Afghanistan after taking a bullet to the shoulder. He then returned to London where he helped Sherlock Holmes with his private investigations. Dr. Watson was 38 and will be survived by an older sister.


End file.
